The Fading Rose
by quoth-the-pigeon
Summary: "England was moving before his mind began to work again. Hair whipping past his face, his hands fisted into the back of France's shirt, the white fabric stretched taunt as he pulled with all his might." FrUk; Rating has been changed.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Hetalia does not belong to us, nor will it ever. ^If it was, then England and France would be together ALL THE TIME.^ This is actually a joint story created by *Chris-Remmey* and ^KageBecks27^.

**The Fading Rose**

_Chapter One_

"Who am I to argue with them?"

France looked up the dim staircase with a long sigh. Paint was falling off the barren walls and every breath, every movement was echoed back to his lone ears. His hand clenched the cold handrail tightly, hands white. With one last glance at the door he had just entered moments ago, another sigh passed his lips and slowly, sluggishly began to ascend the stairs. His body was worn and heavy with the verbal attacks from those of who he dealt with every day. Any other day their words bit at him, those who were his friends, his comrades, and his torturers all rolled into one. Today their words seemed especially cruel, and he was too weary to hide the pain they caused behind another carefree, but empty smile.

A footstep of his hit an especially empty note, the loud echoing beckoning a not so distant memory_. _

_ "Go drown yourself you French bastard."_

He flinched at the mere memory of America's sarcastic words thrown back at him as he only greeted him good morning. He knew it was only a jest, an empty wish casted by America not being a morning person, but all the same it cut him deeper than he had expected. France had still not gotten over the words of Russia the pervious night.

_"How useless, never able to win a war. No wonder no one wants to be with you."_

All the while Russia had been able to keep that sickeningly serene smile on his face. France had responded with a laugh and drowned his glass of Chardonnay, wishing he had something with more bite to distract himself from the pain the words caused.

Each step, each lift of his foot felt as though he was wading through tar, burning and clawing at him, pulling him down and taking a part of him with each passing second. He paused; taking a moment to catch the breath the climb had stolen from him. France looked up, seeing that he was a little more than halfway through his chore. The smell of mold and mildew assaulted his nose, the air was getting colder and thinner by the moment, sinking right to his bones. His muscles ached and chest clenched, as a sudden throb passed through his heart as more harsh words flooded his mind.

_"I hate you the most."_

Those words had come from Germany, standing motionless and bland as ever. They held the weight of true fact, which all words coming from him seemed to have.

France had left then, escaping to another room to find sanctuary and recover_. He had found it occupied by the mysterious nation of Japan, solemnly sitting in a chair near the window, gazing out into the mid afternoon sky. A simple greeting drew Japan from his chair, and without a second glance the nation left the room, not bothering to even look in France's direction._

He had left soon after, not able to push the events from his mind and had taken to the halls; letting his legs take him wherever they would_. The halls were scarce and empty, making him feel no more than a ghost passing through. In his wondering and aimless journey he had stumbled across an unusual meeting of England, America, Italy and Japan. His heart fluttered in hope as he approached, wanting no more than a cruel-less look from England, or perhaps at most a smile and a kind word that would make all he had suffered over the day seem worth while. France had approached, not even murmuring one word; England had turned the most heated glare upon him._

_ "Get the hell away from me, I fucking hate you." _

France felt all defenses he had crumble and as England's words played over and over again in his mind, each time stabbing at his heart.

The words came back and assaulted him anew; making his legs buckle beneath him just as he reached the last step. He clasped onto the railing with both hands, knuckles white and nails turning blue. France, with a trembling hand, grasped the dented doorknob and twisted. The door opened with an audible groan as the hinges protested against the movement. For a moment the change of light blinded him.

The sky was a dull grey, clouds blocking out most light from the fading sun. Gravel still wet from last night's rain crunched beneath his boots as he walked towards the only welcoming aspect of the rooftop. As he moved, the air's dampness weighed his clothes down and made his bones ache, as the must of old cigarette butts discarded on the ground mixed with the stale smell of beer bottles shattered about the roof. Other than that, the roof was barren, and the atmosphere most fitting to his mood. Not even a single bird chirped, as the cool wind blew, whipping his golden hair against his cheek. It brought with it the unexpected cloying scent of cigarette smoke. He adverted his eyes from his goal, his body shivered in shock. There sitting by the now closing door was Germany. His blue eyes looked up into France's face; indifferent, he blew a cloud of smoke into the thin air. He gave a small nod, admitting to France's existence.

"What are you doing here?" Even to his own ear, his once melodic voice now sounded flat and dead.

Germany looked out at the darkening horizon. The once beautiful day was now choked by full grey clouds streaming across the sky as the wind began to race. "Italy decided to come for a visit." He admitted. There was a flash of annoyance across his face, quickly replaced by indifference once again. " Why are you here?"

France decided not to answer, not knowing if Germany even gave a damn.

Germany noticed his silence and gave a sigh. He shifted his weight on the rooftop and closed his eyes as he relaxed. "Italy told me you proposed to Britain again. How did that work out?"

France stood for a moment, eyes trained on the ground. France then looked back up and resumed walking across the rooftop, leaving Germany to speak to his ghost. He was soon near the edge, a pitiful railing that more welcomed than deterred any soul. France's eyes followed the roiling sky unseeing, his mind farther away. He began to lean, and his hand fell into the crags of a small wall jutting from the floor. The wall, despite being made of stone, radiated warmth. It hurt his own numb hand and he soon pulled away, unable any longer to tolerate any pain. Fingers curled around the small bar blocking his path of escape.

Unbeknownst to him, Germany had opened his eyes and was watching France's movements closely. He reached over and stubbed out what was left of the cigarette and simply watched. Some part of him hummed in warning that there was something wrong with the usually chipper man. He had no idea however how wrong.

France lifted his head to the sky, throat exposed to the world as he muttered to himself, letting the wind carrying his words.

"I shouldn't deny it any longer"

Germany leapt up as France swung one leg over the railing. He was halfway across the littered roof when the other leg followed. Two hands and a shallow edge were all that kept France from plummeting to his death.

"Damn it France! What are you doing?" Germany yelled, suddenly halting in fear his actions may spook France before he could speak to him.

France didn't turn his head; rather he kept his eyes up at the heavens in silent prayer. Germany turned suddenly when a loud crack echoed though the air. Silhouetted in the light from the stairs, the door ajar and pressed against the frame, stood England, Italy and America. England's hand was still splayed on the door as he stared at the scene on top. America and Italy were the first to move and sprinted over to Germany. They too gave their distance. All three stood in silence, their eyes wide in fear. England soon joined them on the roof after he'd snapped out of shock.

"NO! You can't die!" Italy cried, for once completely serious in the face of the grave situation. France moved one foot farther off the edge, a bit of rubble trailing off the stonework and sped down to the ground.

"WAIT!" England pushed past America and ran across the distance, stopping less than an arm length away.

For the first time since perching himself on the ledge, France froze and turned to look at them. They could see the tears that had formed in his eyes but had yet to fall, his eyes looking more tired than any of them had ever seen.

"_Angleterre_? What…what are you doing here?" he asked with a sniff, his voice no higher than a whisper.

England stood frozen, unable to process the look of pain on his friend's face. "I…I just wanted to say…to say," the words caught in his throat, unable to believe that such simple words could reach a man so close to the edge. He scuffed his boot against the ground, feeling emotions that he had long bottled up and pushed away wash over him in a tidal wave. He felt a jab at his back, as America urged him on with a not so gentle push of his finger. "I wanted to say I was…I was sorry France."

France hung his head, locks of hair shading his eyes from the other nations' view. "What are you sorry for…I am nothing but a burden on this world."

Italy reached his hand out towards him, desperately trying to reach a man who seemed too far away. "SUCIDE ISN'T THE ANSWER!"

"How many times have you all told me to go kill myself, that the world would be better off without me," France whispered, turning back towards the edge. "It just took me this long to realize." France let his head droop. "You were right."

America clasped his hand on England's shoulder, moving up closer behind him. "NO DAMN IT. I'm a hero and hero's don't let people kill themselves," America cried, clenching his other hand into a fist.

"This is one soul you can not save America."

"God does not forgive such acts!"

"I don't deserve to go to Heaven…Hell will be nothing compared to a life without love."

Italy suddenly turned upon Germany, tears flowing freely down his face. "Germany, this is all your fault!"

"What?" Germany said, confused and wide eyed. His mouth opened to defend himself when the door slammed open once again. Germany and America turned to see who it was, but America quickly turned back to watch England and France. Pouring out from the staircase was Japan and Belarus. Japan's eyes were trained on the madwoman chasing him. She stopped, her interest diverting quickly from pale Japan to the crisis before her. Japan came to a stop soon after when he was near Germany, dark eyes reflecting disbelief as he stared at France standing tediously on the edge.

France's golden head slowly lifted up, staring straight at the horizon with a bitter smile gracing his lips. He shook his head and uttered quietly, "It was nice…to see you all, just one last time." His body leaned forward, ready to take that last step.

"NOOOOOOOOOO!" England's, America's, Germany's, and Italy's voice melded into one large cry, hoping that it would not fall onto deaf ears.

England was frozen as he watched, his mind sluggishly processing France's foot leaving the edge. There was a sudden flurry of motion behind him, he turned rapidly only to catch sight of a blur of white. A high whistle filled the air, soon followed by France jerking towards the wall with a quiet thud. All eyes were trained on the small metal star pinning France's lower sleeve to the warm brick wall. Japan's voice tore though the terse air. " Halt!"

France recovered from the act faster than the others and quickly shrugged off his jacket, preparing to try his leap once more. He leaned into the open air, almost feeling that weightlessness as emptiness began to grab hold. "_Angleterre_," he whispered, the tears finally falling from his swollen eyes. "_…Pardon moi_."

England was moving before his mind began to work again. Hair whipping past his face, his hands fisted into the back of France's shirt, the white fabric stretched taunt as he pulled with all his might. England could feel the cold air caress his face as he became weightless, feet lifted from the ground. He watched France's body tumble back safely to the other side of the rail as he plummeted. His left hand shot out, fingers grating against stone as he tried to grab hold. His body jerked as his grip finally held steadfast. Shoulder screaming, he stared in horror at the distant ground below. His torn left hand clenched tightly to the small ledge preventing him from joining the dead. England clawed at a metal strut poking out of the side of the building, right hand tightly gripping it. He looked upwards for help as his heart pulsed in his throat.

France hit the rooftop with a hard thud, crumpling in disbelief. He opened his eyes, realizing in horror that England was not behind him or anywhere else on the safety the roof held. He stumbled to his feet, ignoring the way the gravel bit into his palms and knees as he moved towards the edge once again. His white hands clasped the railing once more, this time to support him as he gazed down below for his missing love. He spotted him at once, clinging precariously to the crumbling ledge below. "_ANGLETERRE_!" France reached over and grasped England's left hand around the wrist, trying to keep his love from a fate only moments ago he had tried to enact on himself.

England tried to push himself into France's grip, shadows of death whirling and tearing though his mind. His weight shifted and his grasp from the strut slipped, biting into his right hand and arm. He shut his eyes at the pain, could feel the blood and sweat separating his lone hand from France. His voice came out strangled, desperate.

" I can't," he stopped as his grip gave slightly and looked up in primal fear into France's feverish eyes, "…I can't hold on any longer!" Their fingers parted and England clawed the air in vain.

Suddenly, two vice like grips entwined around his wrist and heaved him over the rail in a single jolt. He collapsed onto a soft and warm human body as he began to shudder from the icy fear flooding his body. He heaved and sucked in the sweet air, his arms wrapped around his torso. He was alive; his body was humming with adrenaline and the sheer relief solid ground brought. England could feel his shirt becoming wet with the blood of his wounded arm, but ignored the injury. He could hear the panting of his savior beneath him. For once, England couldn't move away and simply stared into France's anguished and pinched expression.

France could feel the warmth of his beloved England lying on top of him, shaking from his close brush with death. A danger that he had placed him in. Slowly, he sat up, his back giving a twang of protest at the motion. Gently, he pushed the body he wanted closest to him away, before scooting back on his knees. Once at a safe distance, that he may no longer put England in any more danger, he hung his head, letting more tears roll down his cheeks and onto his hands where they had fisted into the knees of his pants. "I…have failed you…again _Angleterre_…I don't deserve to live."

England looked over at France, his lips parted in silent shock. A sudden flare of rage tore though his body, ripping away all cold thoughts and prohibitions. His lips pressed together and he launched his weak body at France, cuffing him across the face. He tightly held his collar, forcing a stunned France to look into his furious gaze. Words rumbled as relief and grief rolled off him " HOW DARE YOU!" He cried, shaking the man for good measure. His eyes narrowed as he fought off tears of frustration, "How could you make me worry like that! Did you think it would make me feel any better? Did you think it would solve any problems?" His shoulders heaved as he panted from the fury of his speech.

France's lips parted, his eyes wide at the display he had just seen. "But…but you hate me." His words tumbled out of him, words he had never said out loud to anyone before.

England was still for a moment. Trying to wrap his head around the quiet words. The fire coursing though his body leapt to his eyes. His body quivered in anger and he clenched his jaw tightly.

" No." He said forcefully, his eyes lost in France's. "No! I hate you whining! I hate it when you give up!" the last syllables were given emphasis by the clenching of his grip, having moved to France's arms. France broke the smoldering gaze, his head bowed " But I don't hate you." England's torn and bloody hand grasped his chin so their eyes could meet again. They were silent for a pause before the raw fear ripped though England, the scene of France tumbling over the crumbling edge playing itself out in his minds eye. "Don't ever leave me!" he cried.

France's face fell, at the words. They should have filled him with joy, with relief even. Suddenly the fact that England didn't hate him wasn't enough, that simple admittance unable to sew together what was left of his shredded and beaten heart. The words slipped quietly through his lips.

" Why do you even care?" The deep blue pools of his eyes began to empty of emotion once more; bringing back the lost look England had seen when he was last on the edge.

"You idiot." He hissed.

Once more his body moved first, fueled by his heart, pressing into France. His eyes shut quickly as his lips pressed against France's chapped ones. All anger had left him, the kiss leaching it away from him, keeping the kiss gentle.

France sat stunned for a moment; the feeling of soft lips caressing his brought a gasp to his mouth. He felt as England carefully traced his tongue along his lips, his breath bringing with it the old taste of tea and a trace of earth. Cautiously, he pressed into the kiss, closing his eyes as he felt one of England's hands run soothingly across his cheek. France's heart leapt, feeling stronger than it had in a long time. Reluctantly, France pulled away, looking at England with doe eyes, wide and confused.

"Why…" he whispered. "Why did you do that?"

England met his eyes, face solemn. His left hand reached out to France's pale face again, tracing his jaw line with the pad of his thumb. Thoughts swirled though his mind creating a soporific haze. He couldn't answer suddenly. The words held captive in his swollen throat. As he gazed into the dimming eyes of the man he had once seen infallible, a small flicker of passion flitted in his chest.

"I wont marry you just because you want too," he soon added," or if it's just for solving a problem." He watched quietly for a moment. Such simple words were always the hardest to utter. A grief stricken smile filled his lips as he gathered tendrils of courage together.

"…But I still love you." The words fell out slowly, each syllable highlighted by the warmth in his voice. Suddenly it was extinguished, replaced by remorse, "I thought you knew that." His hands fell away swiftly, poisonous thoughts clawing into his heart. "I'm sorry," His head fell to his breast, "this is my fault it came to this."

Hesitantly, France reached for England's face, lifting it up slightly so he could gaze into his eyes as his own grew serious. "No _Angleterre_, you mustn't say that, this wasn't your fault." His tone fell soft once again, confusion creeping back into his voice. "It's just that…with all you said…before, I."

"I know!" he muttered, breaking the gaze as blood pooled to his cheeks, "I get jealous, okay!"

France blinked slowly, trying to wrap his around the news that his blushing beloved was telling him. "W-what?"

England looked anywhere but France's face, too embarrassed to be caught in his questioning gaze. Melancholy spread though his veins as the darker reasoning began to be un-bottled. His right arm fell to the side, twinges of pain roiling in his arm. " I know…" he hesitated before plowing on.

"I know not a lot of people could…" – he waved his hand in a vague gesture– "love me." His left hand covered his eyes. "I can get…" he stopped, feeling like an idiot and finished mumbling in near incoherency. "Never mind…" Still allowing his hand to conceal his eyes, lips grimaced as an old thought resurfaced. "I thought you were teasing me all this time." He admitted.

France's jaw dropped slightly as he suddenly understood. He knew he wasn't the easiest to deal with, and a lot of what he said could be taken the wrong way. There was a time, well a long time, which he thought he could fill his emptiness with short loves no matter how empty or meaningless they would be in a matter of moments, but it always left his heart heavier, wanting the real thing. "I know…I'm hard to deal with sometimes," France admitted, saying words aloud he had just thought in his head. "But, I've never stopped loving you." It was true; the other times he missed the love, but never the person. That had changed, as he met England. Even now, as he looked at the shaken man in front of him, he couldn't think of anyone else he wished it would be.

England's shoulders twitched as he tried to control himself. His emotions had vacillated all over and too many different feelings were coming loose and toppling over the brim. His shoulders shook again as he forced a sob back deep in his throat. One tear fell from red brimmed eyes and slid slowly down his cheek. He sniffed and was glad his hand still covered his eyes as another tear fell.

"Damn it," he choked out. A sob broke though and he curled into himself, not wanting anyone to see him like this. Despite all his wishing for his tears to stop, they began to pour out again. They burned his cuts and the taste of salt stole into his mouth. "Damn it!" he muttered again.

For the first time in a very long time, France's eyes softened and gleamed, showing a glint of life behind them. Shakily, he brought one of his hands up to England's face, gently wiping away a stream of tears that crept out from beneath the hand still clasped over his eyes. France made no move to remove the hand, still feeling as if he didn't belong here, as if the words he was hearing was not real.

England didn't move away, nor did he move towards France's touch. He was ashamed of himself for crying, for revealing such weakness. In a distant corner of his mind, he knew the other nations were watching– hesitating to come near to either of them. He couldn't summon up any feeling to care though as tears continued down their tracks. "Don't ever do that again," it came out strangled from a swollen throat. In the darkness of his closed eyes, the vivid flashes of France standing on the ledge and dropping replayed cruelly again and again.

France pulled his hand back at once, not sure what the nation was talking about. England had still yet to look at him, squarely in the eye without being forced. His hand was shaking, trembling as he suddenly felt cold again.

England noticed the loss of touch, tears beginning to cascade anew. "Please," he begged, "Don't die. I'd rather die." The wind played with his hair gently.

France stiffened, eyes widen in disbelief at England's words. "Would," he gasped out, his breath clenching in his chest. "Would you…really miss me…_Angleterre_?"

England leaned forward, blindly placing his forehead into the crook of the other man's shoulder. A gasp rustled the cloth and he shuddered. He kept his hand over his eyes still. " If you died." He began, a shiver at the thought wracked though his body, "My body would soon follow." The whisper of England's words were sorrowful, so low only France could hear the confession. " There wouldn't be…"

"No _Angleterre_!" France cried, wrapping his arms around the man in front of him, clutching on for dear life. "You must never ever say such things." New tears fell down France's face, partially washing away dried tear trails that had streaked his pale cheeks with paths of white salt. The thought of it, of England not being here, was too much to bear.

"Then don't ever make me have to come to that!" he yelled into France's shoulder. He pulled back from the embrace and glared into his eyes. "Promise me!" he cried again, hands fastening to France's shoulders. "Promise me you wont try to take your life again!" He yelled.

France stared straight into England's tear filled emerald eyes, seeing emotions flash rapidly behind them. What he _didn't_ see– rage, hatred, distrust– made England's plea go straight to his still mending heart. His head hurt, body weary, but all the while his heart's ache was being eased. "As…as long as you are with me, my _Angleterre_," he started, pausing halfway through to make sure his voice would not fail him. "I won't have a reason to." England's head fell as he looked to the ground and shut his eyes once more. France leaned forward, gently resting his forehead atop England's lowered head. "I'm so sorry. I…I never thought…anyone really loved me. I didn't know that anyone really cared. I hide behind so many smiles…but none of them were real." He paused, shifting back again, lifting his head from England's. England glanced up, his expression unreadable. "That was…until…until I grew to love you."

"I thought you were messing with my head." England admitted, still looking up at France. His tears had begun to stop, but he gave a small hiccup as he tried to regain his breath. He held his right arm tightly, as a twinge of pain flared. "I thought…" he trailed off for a moment. "I thought you were always laughing at me."

France shook his head vigorously, trying eagerly to prove England wrong. "I would never," he confirmed, pausing before adding, "I could never do that to you."

Green eyes locked onto blue. " Why?" he asked. The realization that, no actually, France hadn't been making a fool out of him– was quickly becoming a dull ache in his head while he adjusted to it. "Why me?" confusion evident in his voice. He asked again, "Of anyone, why me?"

France let out a pitiful, single chuckle. He had never really thought of it before. He didn't think he needed a reason. "I…I don't know…" he admitted, his voice thin. His face became serious, brow knitting as he thought about everything they had been through, all the time they had spent together through fate's desire. "I-I've never felt this way before…even when you yelled at me, called me names…" France rubbed at his eye, dried and scratchy from shedding so many tears. "I guess I've just always…always."

England had winced as France recalled his actions, but watched him carefully. His right arm throbbed and he held it tightly with his left, thoughts too focused on France.

"Always?" he asked softly. His body began to relax, the tension of the fading day slowly dissolving. He let out a shuddered breath and released his right arm to wipe away the stinging tear tracks from his puffy eyes. His heart slowed, the adrenaline draining away as quickly as it had come. He felt tired, more tired than he had in a long time. His body was fatigued, but his heart and mind whorled with emotions. His arm throbbed again, more painfully and in contrast to the rest of his numb body. "Ah…ow." He muttered. Again his left hand grasped his right tightly.

France tensed, feeling England flinch, hearing the small gasp of pain escape his lips. "What is it?" he asked, bringing his arms to clasp England's shoulders, worry tearing through him.

England gave a pained smile to France, perspiration beginning to prickle on his skin. His arm throbbed again, harsh pain rushing up his limb and dashing across nerves. How hadn't he noticed such a wound? England wondered to himself. His eyes clenched together and he gritted his teeth. "It's nothing." He said tersely, "It's just a cut." His fingers had gone numb, and yet the pain ripped though him, this time he couldn't mask his face quickly enough.

"Let me see," France pleaded, slowly and gently wrapping one of his hands around England's left hand, trying to coax him into letting him see his right arm. He hadn't missed the agony on his beloved's face, nor how pale he was getting before his eyes. His heart lurched, stomach twisted into knots as his own body began to shake. England held fast to his arm, twisting a little to try and block France's view. France's long fingers gently cupped England's cheek, cautiously tugging it till England was looking into his eyes. "_Angleterre_ please…let me see."

England bit the inside of his lip, both in reluctance and from the pain. He turned his head to look at his injured arm and pulled the hand France clasped away. The wind tousled his hair and scraped across his cheeks. His head swirled as he looked at the bright crimson flowing freely from the long laceration along his right hand and arm, the surrounding ripped sleeve drenched. The wound started from a deep gash across the pad of his hand and tore up into his wrist. His hand was dyed from the blood, it had pooled onto the ground, sticky to his skin and clothes. England's vision twisted and he looked away.

"_Angleterre_," France cried at seeing the horrible gash trailing along England's skin. He leapt to his feet, reluctantly leaving him still kneeling on the floor. Quickly, he bound to the wall mere feet behind him, reaching for the blue jacket still pinned there by Japan's ninja star. He seized the clothing with both hands, giving a hard tug, listening and not caring as the fabric ripped free. He pivoted around, eager to get back to England, but the wet gravel beneath his feet gave way, sending him tottering back towards the wall. Pain erupted from his shoulder as he felt something cold and sharp pierce his skin, and his head pounded dully as it collided against the hard brick. He felt warm liquid run over his pale skin, quickly soaking the back of his shirt as he moved forward once again, all focus trained on getting back to England. Once more he heard a horrible tear as he broke the metal's grasp and ran back to England's side.

He knelt down by England, grasping his bleeding arm and quickly pressing his jacket against it to slow the bleeding.

England hissed something incoherent as the fabric pressed against the open wound. His muscles clenched together in response to the pain. America broke the small line the other nations had unknowingly created as they had hypnotically watched the scene unfold between England and France. His usual jovial eyes were dark as he knelt down by England's side. He gave a small nod to France and placed a hand gently along the injured arm. The dark fabric was quickly turning black as its fibers swelled with blood. He peeled an edge of the fabric away and gave a short hiss of breath.

"I think he needs stitches." America admitted and stood up, but did not move from his post.

"Call an ambulance," France cried frantically, eyes never leaving England's pain pinched face. The fear welled up in him, that if he looked away, the nation would wither away before he could stop it and be lost to him forever.

England's face smoothed as he looked up in disbelief. "Uh…" he started, mixed between gladness for the concern and irritation for the over reacting. If the wound was wrapped properly, it shouldn't be a problem, he thought to himself. "I think I can walk." He muttered, not ready to leave what was left of his dignity.

"Are…are you sure?" France asked, watching as England shifted to prepare to stand. France twisted with him, ready to hold the engorged jacket tightly to the arm. England pushed his hand away, taking hold of the fabric himself.

England slowly pushed himself off the ground, not allowing his face to contort as his body cried from the abuse. His hand was numb, but his arm felt afire. He hoped no one could see how his legs quivered as he finally stood up straight. He took in deep gulp of air and gave what he hoped was a strong, reassuring smile. " Really, it's only a…" his words were cut off in his mouth as his vision swam and blurred. He could feel the world tilt sharply from flexing his arm inadvertently. Pain, more raw than before, clawed and ripped though his body. He gasped and could feel his body falling.

France leapt forward, as soon as England's words had trailed off, watching what little color was left in his face drain out of him. "_Angleterre_!" he screamed, as he caught the disturbingly limp body in his arms, his shoulder throbbed in protest. He pushed his pain away, once again drawing his entire attention onto England, fear and worry showing across his face in wave after wave. His heart leapt into his throat, making his eyes burn.

America's hands were outstretched; he too had been ready to catch England. England's breathing was shallow and his wan face glistened from perspiration. He kept his eyes closed as his head throbbed. He could hear France's frantic heart beating against his chest and England took another deep, long breath to steady himself.

"Thank you" he murmured.

Belarus looked in interest at England's wound from afar. She wondered out loud, "I wonder if it need to be amputated?"

England's eyes shot open. "What?"

America turned a disapproving gaze onto Belarus. "Ah, no. I don't think so." His eyes trailed as Japan walked over to the small wall where the metal star still pinned a jagged strip of cloth. He removed it with a swift jerk and studied it intensely. America turned back to a panicked France and wounded England. England squirmed out of the grasp gently, pulled away to attempt once again to stand on his own.

France moved to grasp England at his elbows and help him rise once more. "Come _Angleterre_, we need to get you taken care of." They were both standing again, France trying to support the wounded nation on one side while America stood nearby with wary eyes, watching England cautiously. Once more his shoulder twanged, sending a flare of white agony shooting throughout his body. He barely hid the finch in time, keeping the attention on England.

England stubbornly tried to brush France away. He could walk on his own, damn it. "I can…walk on…my own," he murmured woozily, the words not even comparable to the force they had had in his head.

America gave a loud scoff, watching him out of the corner of his eyes. " Well, it looks like you're going to keel over."

England gave a heated glare, and began to take a step forward. His body had other ideas however and gave up. His vision blacked and he began to slump as he entered unconsciousness, body slack as all control fled.

Once more France moved to catch him, but his left arm was unresponsive and numb. He wrapped his right arm as securely as possible around England's waist, thankful when he felt America's hands grasp onto England's rag doll like frame. The shift made his shoulder scream angrily, a bit back grunt escaping France's chapped lips as his knees folded beneath him. He hoped that no one else had heard it, and that he had been able to hide the flash of agony that had taken over his face, knitting his brow together and setting his jaw tightly.

Germany's voice carried over to them as he restrained a frantic Italy, " Damn it, America. You need to bring England to the hospital now!"

America ignored him for the moment, however he took the words to heart. As he helped to support England he looked carefully at France, having seen a small glimpse of the pain he was in. "Are you okay? He asked.

Italy's frantic voice cut though the air loudly. "Are you okay?"

Japan stood adjacent to America, looking in confusion at the blood dipped metal. "This isn't mine." America gave him the briefest of looks before returning to France, still waiting for an answer.

Finally, he began to lift England away from France's grip to bring him help. The wound itself had been alarming, but with England now unconscious, he knew it was imperative they brought him medical attention. The jacket was now useless, too swollen with blood to stop it any more. Germany noticed as America pulled off the sopping jacket and unbuttoned his own shirt for a replacement. He folded it as he walked quickly, giving it to America wordlessly as he applied it to the wound. The blood crawled along the fabric, alarmingly bright in contrast.

France watched as they began to take England away from him, headed for the hospital. He pushed himself up, left arms still hanging useless and head beginning to spin as he reached out towards England's still frame. "Let me go with him…" he pleaded as he took a shaky step forward, the world suddenly tilting beneath him as his vision blurred and spun. His head started pounding behind his eyes as he felt gravity take hold of him. Before he contacted with the rooftop, he felt strong and sure arms wrap around his waist and ease him down towards the ground. His whole body felt as if he was on fire, but shook from a terrible cold.

Japan studied him carefully, taking note of each shake with his dark eyes. "You both need to go." He stated. He turned to stare at Belarus who was watching all the action with a serene look. An unspoken question sat on his lips as he turned back to France. "France, are you…" he began, but was cut off by America's cry.

"Damn it, we need to go now!" he yelled. He gathered England into his arms, whose head lolled back exposing the column of his throat to the sky. He seemed so pale, so lifeless. America gripped England tightly, the wounded arm and impromptu bandage pressed against his chest with what he hoped was enough pressure. Even with the folded cloth, he could feel the wet blood begin to cling to his own skin and clothing.

France could feel America's hesitant gaze on him, still unable to see anything but blobs of shapes before him. The throbbing his head gave was growing stronger each passing second and threatened to tear his skull apart. The image of England's limp body crossed his mind, the last thing he had seen before the vision stealing pain had taken over. He fought against the sudden clenching of his chest, his lungs unable to suck down enough air. Still, he looked in the direction he could feel America still standing. "G…Go," he croaked, his voice breaking in the plea. He felt any color he still had in his face drain, as he was suddenly wracked with jolts of fiery pain running up and down his spine. But he bit back every groan he could, wanting them to take England to help as soon as possible.

America bolted across the roof, jaw terse in fear. Italy and Germany flanked him and they disappeared into the lit stairwell. He splashed the puddles gathered on the rooftop, and despite the brilliant red sunset that glowed in the sky, America couldn't help but thinking how close it looked to England's slowly depleting blood.

Japan watched the retreating backs and then turned to look at France kneeling on the rooftop, every shake of his body more prominent than the last. "Do you need help?" He asked, offering a hand of support.

France tried to smile up at him, reaching out a shaky hand to grasp his. Before he could, a vicious throb behind his eyes brought his hand back to clasp his forehead, as if the limb could keep his head from splitting apart all together. "Ah," he gasped out, trying to shut his eyes against the sudden fuzziness of his mind. His chest constricted again, stealing what little breath he had left. "M-my head...feels strange," he managed to gasp out, as a jolt of tingling numbness shot through his body.

Belarus watched quietly from a short distance away, a small grin gracing her lips. "That's a normal reaction to poison you know."

France looked up at her, confusion written clearly on his face. A cold sweat had broken across his face, the tremors of his body wracking his thin frame.

Suddenly his eyes went wide, as he felt a warm coppery liquid fill his throat and mouth. France pitched forward suddenly, as he coughed up the crimson liquid, the red blood trickling out of the corner of his mouth, staining his porcelain skin. Another wave of pain passed through him, his back and arms no longer having the strength to support him as he tumbled towards the ground.

Japan's eyes had widened in alarm and he knelt down to the fallen man. His gloved hand gripped his shoulder, waiting for a response and turning his gaze up to a softly giggling Belarus. His dark gaze was soon trained back onto France's unresponsive form. He shook him gently, hoping for even the smallest of sounds from him. "Belarus, go get help!" he called

"Why should I?"

Japan looked up sharply, mouth opening to yell back when the door across the roof swung open. Germany came striding though, clear blue eyes widened with concern.

Japan no longer hesitated and began to pull the tall nation into his arms. He could hear Germany call to him, rushing past and ignoring Belarus. He stopped next to Japan and helped to pick him up. Japan transferred the weight into Germany's arms, his tall frame better for supporting France. " He need to go to the hospital now."

"Yes." Germany agreed and turned on his heel. He began to rush to the stairs alongside Japan.

Belarus' face glowed in the darkening red light. " I guess we should have called for an ambulance."

Japan and Germany both ignored her again, legs pumping to furiously to bring help. "France, you can't leave England. He'll fall." Japan muttered more to himself and not expecting an answer.

France's eyes opened slightly, the once rich blue glazed over behind a haze of agony and delusion. Once more coughed up blood, barely sucking in enough air through his burning throat. With a sudden gasp, his entire body relaxed, becoming nothing but dead weight in Germany's arms. His eyes slowly closed, heading for a dangerous sleep, whispering a final phrase before darkness took him. "_Angle...ter-re_, forg-g-give me."

Germany looked down, having heard the word fall past France's lips. They began to descend the stairs, walls and railings bright in an unhealthy florescent light. The stairs that had taken France so long to climb before were now flown down in a nearly inhuman pace. Japan slammed his shoulder into the bottom door leading out into the coming night, opening the door for Germany to rush through. "Fuck, Help!" Germany yelled into the night. He and Japan continued on, hoping they could reach the hospital in time.


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you for all of your reviews! Every comment makes us write that much more. We hope you enjoy reading as much as we have had a blast writing. Enjoy!~Chris

**The Fading Rose**

_Chapter Two_

For a while Arthur lay in darkness, mind sluggishly floating separate from his body. Some strange part of his thoughts was able to glean that this darkness wasn't normal, that he should be up and walking around and talking. He promptly told that feeling to shut the fuck up. It was comfortable enough that Arthur had no reason to even try and wake up and so he let himself languidly rest in the abyss.

Slowly, like an ice clogged river, small snippets of memories began to stick back vividly in his brain. When a snippet of his wound and the nebulous memory of being hauled off to the hospital finally seeded it self, he wondered if he was dead. If so, was this the afterlife? Was he really dead? For such a harrowing question he didn't even flinch and noted after a beat that the afterlife should not smell like dry sterilized air and grilled beef. It also should most certainly _not_ be sounding like Bruce Springsteen – a badly hummed, off key version of _Dancing in the Dark_ to be specific.

No, any afterlife couldn't be that cruel.

The more he thought about how he really couldn't be dead, the more he could feel his body and with it the distant throbbing of his arm, the ache in his muscles and the incessant tapping of a nervous walker nearby. The terribly hummed song began to repeat and he opened his eyes.

For a moment, Arthur was blinded by the glare of the hot white light above. He snapped his eyes shut and after a moment he slowly opened them and quickly diverted his eyes from the light above.

Sitting by his bedside, arms tucked together and head bowed onto his chest, was Alfred. His normally bright blue eyes were closed and his face twitched as he shifted, then continued to hum. _Ah, so that would be why_, Arthur thought drowsily and looked back at the room he was in. It was bright white and sterile filled with the dry air that can only be found within the confines of a hospital. He angled his neck to see if anyone else was in the room and pressed against the small bed he was laying on. The bed groaned as he shifted and Alfred's eyes shot open, a questioning look immediately from behind his glasses.

Seeing Arthur awake his face crinkled into a bright smile, relief blatant in his posture. "Hey old man, finally awake?"

Arthur's eyebrows furrowed as he gave the younger man a murderous glare, or as murderous as he could summon up from just waking up. "Bloody git." He finally muttered, voice cracking from the dry air.

America gave a small sigh, more in happiness than from fatigue, and buried his hand in his hair. " Good to see you're alright then. Really gave us the scare there, Arthur." His hand pulled away and tapped gently on Arthur's wrist. Above in his vein was a needle connecting to an IV taped down to his skin. He paused for a moment before continuing. "Of course at this point, it's nothing a few Hamburgers can't fix."

"As if anything like that could actually have any nutritious benefit." Arthur muttered, but his eyes didn't leave the IV. Seeing the medical equipment in his own skin set off another wave of questions dashing though his mind. " How long–" he began.

"Have you been here?" America finished. He shrugged and stood up. Walking over to the side table he took a plastic cup with a small straw. He held it to Arthur who unsteadily gripped it. Alfred hovered for a moment to see if he would spill, but moved on when Arthur gave him a venomous glare. "Only about a day," he finally added and sauntered over to the shut window on the other wall. "And what a beautiful day it is!" He crowed and flung open the thick beige curtains.

The sky was dark and gloomy with the promise of rain. Streetlights had already turned on and trees in the distance bent and clacked as they bowed to the wind. Arthur simply looked up at Alfred who gave a sheepish smile and returned to his bedside and took the cup out of his shaking grip. "Or not."

"Idiot."

Arthur lay back into the inclined bed and looked around the room. Alfred noticed his wandering eyes and fidgeted with his sleeve. " Uh…how's the arm?" he asked.

Alfred looked down at his right arm with a frown. He couldn't really feel it from under the swathes of white bandages encircling from his hand to his elbow. "It doesn't hurt right now," he answered truthfully. He then looked up, still frowning, when Alfred fidgeted again.

"That's good," he replied and looked away to the corner of the room. Arthur had to crane his neck to see Japan pacing back and forth over there; his eyes stead fast on the door. America turned back and put his hand on Arthur's shoulder pressing him back down gently and blocking his view of the doorway. " That's probably because they've got you jacked up on morphine." He frowned and looked down with a rare expression of seriousness. "It really was quite the wound." He looked away when the sound of footsteps went by the door and then looked back at Arthur. "You're not seeing things from it are you?"

"No." he looked back down at his swathed arm and the other lightly bandaged hand. _I look like half wrapped mummy_, he thought darkly.

"It had to get stitches," Alfred informed him and sat back down into the small pink plastic covered chair. "The gash down your wrist had to be cauterized." Both America's and England's lips twisted in a grimace. "It'll probably be a nice scar." He finally added.

"It's nothing a pair of gloves can't cover." Arthur muttered and looked back into America's face. " Where's France?" he asked finally, a small ping of sadness at the lack of the Frenchman.

Alfred's face paled slightly and his eyes shifted to the door and then back at England. "Should I get the doctor?" he asked. His voice was a little too high. "You might need more morphine, you know, for the wound." He got out of the chair, which squealed in protest, "Or maybe you're hungry? Why don't I just get the doctor?"

Arthur was startled from the sudden change of relaxed posture to the barely hidden panic. A slick, oily feeling settled into his stomach and he mustered his voice together to stop him from walking out of the room.

"AMERICA." He snapped forcefully, eyes narrowed dangerously.

Alfred stopped before the door, shot a hooded look towards Japan before turning his head back reluctantly. He forced a reassuring smile as he locked eyes with England, unable to completely hide the concern and uncertainty flashing constantly behind his eyes.

Arthur felt fear built in his chest, stealing his breath away. He had felt something was wrong since he had woken up, that something was terribly wrong. Arthur hadn't missed the nation's absence. At first he felt hurt for the lack of presence in the room. The hurt now quickly turned to panic with the look on Alfred's face and Japan's refusal to look at him, even when he paused in his pacing of the room. "W-what aren't you telling me?" he croaked out, the fear burning away what was left of the fog sleep and medication had left on his mind. "What's wrong with France!"

Alfred's smile faltered, eyes shutting as he tried to force himself in a relaxed ease. "Ah well…" he paused, bringing his gloved hand to rub the back of his head, turning his gaze out the window. "It's not so much as not telling…"

The stoic Japan stopped his pacing; turning to bring his eyes to lock onto England, fear burning behind usually unreadable eyes. "France is in the ICU," he stated, voice even. Alfred shot a glaring look at Kiku, before whirling to look at Arthur.

Arthur's body stiffened, eyes widening in shock. "What? No! Why?" his words were rambling and pouring out of him. He shook his head, furrowing his eyebrows together as he tried to formulate a complete sentence. "I mean…I stopped him didn't I?" His fists balled in the sheets of the bed, feeling the bandages tighten at the movement. "He didn't…" his gaze snapped up at America, his eyes burning and feeling hot. "Oh god, he didn't…he didn't?"

Alfred took a step towards the bed, hands brought out in front of him in a comforting gesture. "No, of course not. It's not that," he replied hurriedly, mental cursing Japan as he watched Arthur's body start to shake slightly, the figure tense when he should be resting.

"What then?" England snapped, eyes glancing hopefully between the two men. Silence met his gaze, a silence that hung uncomfortably in the air. It pressed down on his chest, making his breath quicken. His hands rose to clutch his head as a bombard of images of what had happened to France flashed behind his eyes. "W-what happened?" Once more he glanced up at America, trying to calm himself in front of the others. "I-Is he ok?"

America removed his glasses for a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose and tipping an eyebrow up. He looked back and met Arthur's gaze for a moment without his glasses and then placed them back, resting on his nose. "He got hurt after you fainted. The doctors think he'll be okay, for right now." The last bit was mumbled quickly.

England's breath became still for a moment. "Right now!" he cried out. "THINK? Damn it America! TELL ME WHAT HAPPENED TO HIM!" he took a deep gulp of air, voice louder than he had intended from fear.

Alfred looked down at the linoleum floor, looking as though the words might be carved into the speckled ground. A curled hand rested below his lower lip. "He hurt his shoulder…" he began reluctantly, "and…"

"I'm afraid it's my fault." Kiku's soft voice from the corner of the room made both England and America to turn in order to see him. "I poisoned him."

The words brought a veil of black silk over Arthur's mind for a brief moment, tying up his tongue as incomplete word began to sputter from his mouth. America had spun around, back echoing the sudden tension and anger in his body. His jaw clenched together and hands flexed before relaxing. England would have caught the mixture of frustration and worry in his face had he not been so solely trained on Japan's form.

"YOU WHAT?" he bellowed finally.

"England…." America said tersely and held up his hand. England completely ignored the younger man.

"You _poisoned_ him? Why the bloody Fuck would you do that!" His voice became strained as he yelled in rage and confusion. He was seeing red and suddenly America's hands were holding him back down to the bed. He panted, still weak, but struggled against the grip.

"It was an accident Arthur!" Blue eyes looked imploringly into dark murderous green ones.  
"Let– go!" he hissed between pants.

"Chill out Arthur! You're going to hurt yourself even more like this!" England still tried to thrash, but Alfred's grip tightened and gave the smallest shake. His darkened eyes looked up into America's face with a glower. America lessened his grip slightly, but didn't let go. He could almost imagine the curses and spells going though his friend's mind and cleared his throat. England laid flat against the bed, face flushed from the sudden movement and panting slightly; his hand reached up and grabbed Alfred's collar. He could feel the aches in his body starting to become known.

"I know it sounds bad." America continued and shook his head, "Fuck, it is bad. But just listen for a moment."

England let go and wordlessly gave a small signal that America should continue. Alfred gave a soft squeeze with his hand and let go, taking a step back. England struggled for a second to sit up properly; he wouldn't be listening to this lying in a bed like some invalid. He wanted to shake, to collapse when he finally sat upright and stared at the two men in the room, green eyes blazing.

"You have two minutes to tell me what the fuck happened."

"Well," America looked briefly to Japan again, a quick and silent dialogue between them and he rotated his shoulder as he explained. "You remember when Japan threw that star initially to stop Francis from jumping, and it caught his sleeve– pinning him to the wall?"

A flash of metal and cries went though his minds eye and Arthur gave a terse nod, "Yes."

"Hmm…he went to grab his jacket after you fainted and he slipped. I guess he cut himself on it."

Japan's head was bowed in apology. "I did not realize it had been poisoned. I had simply reused it from when Belarus had tried to attack me with it earlier that day." When he brought his head up he noticed the question in their faces. "It, the metal, was poisoned."

"Damn it!" he snapped. America took a small step closer when England shaded his eyes with his hand. "And now he's…"

"In the ICU." America finished. He stopped fidgeting and moving and finally went still. " We're still waiting for news. Ludwig and Veneziano are waiting for any news outside."

Silence filled the room and America was stuck between a distraught England and a brooding Japan. He frowned and sat back in the plastic covered chair with a small squeak, kicking absently at the floor. He watched Arthur carefully as muscles rippled in his arms and neck while he worked his jaw and occasionally flexed his fingers. Seconds began to tick by, each additional second creating a more stuffy and wan atmosphere. Finally England shifted and looked up at the ceiling. "Why the hell was he grabbing his jacket?" His green eyes, which had been so full of dark fire moments ago, seemed dull and tired.

"Ah… well," America flustered and looked rather to the oh-so-interesting portrait of a small child on a beach on another wall instead. "We, er… we were all just a little panicked when you fainted like that."

"I didn't faint." Arthur huffed and crossed his arms without thinking. He winced as he tugged against the IV and his other tender wrist bumped against a railing.

America gave a knowing smirk. "Right. And I didn't carry your bleeding ass all the way here."

England tuned to scowl at Alfred when the door opened slightly. In the doorway stood Germany. His face was unreadable, but he gave a short nod to England. "America," he stated, looking away to the fidgeting super nation.

America was up in a leap and seemed to nearly throw the chair in his flurry of movement. He walked calmly to the door however and then stopped and turned to England to give a thumbs-up. "I'll be right back," he said with a grin and walked out of the partly open door. His back wasn't even out of sight before he took off down the hall.

Unease filled England again and he bunched the white sheets on the bed. A deep breath was taken to steady his nerves and stomach and he began to fiddle with the bandages on his arm. Horrible images due to a wandering mind began to bubble up. Thoughts of a dying Francis, a dead and lifeless corpse, white in eternal rest, roiled though his tremulous mind and shook his head. The slick, slimy and heavy feeling was back in his gut, like a rolling oil slick. He bit the inside of his lip and began to pay all the more attention to the blank canvas of the swathed bandages.

Silent pleas for France's health went though his mind and he stopped and berated himself for acting like such a worried hen. No one had said that France was the cause for alarm. Right? His throat convulsed and it suddenly became hard to breathe. Who was he kidding? What else could it be? The dark, ghostly images of his lifeless friend fluttered in his mind. He buried his head in his hands as a few whispery lines floated into his mind.

_Last scene of all,_

_That ends this strange eventful history,_

_Is second childishness and mere oblivion,_

_Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything._

He wanted to curl into a ball, but instead he laid down flush against the inclined bed.

Japan walked by his bedside and fixed the chair America had left in disarray. He looked uncertain of what to do and stood obviously uncomfortably near the wall. Had Arthur been in a better mood he might have made conversation, but right now he was content to watch Japan squirm a bit. Finally Kiku seemed to decide to post himself near the end of the bed while looking out at the window.

Arthur looked out of the window too, hoping it would distract his mind. It had started to rain and darkened raindrops dappled the window, swirling down in what looked like a cold and watery drip down to the ground.

The door opened with a soft click as the handle tuned and Arthur swiveled his gaze. The door pushed open and in with a quiet click of heels came Belarus. In her hands was a small bunching of yellow carnations. She gave a small smile, still seemingly cold some how and stopped near the bed on his left side. "Oh my, England. How are you feeling today?" She paused and put the flowers in another cup by his bedside and turned her small smile on him. "I hope you like flowers. I thought of you when I saw them. Pretty aren't they?" She stepped back and admired the flowers, lips tipped as though laughing at a hidden joke and turned back suddenly to England. "That was quite the wound. I'm surprised you survived."

Arthur gritted his teeth "Thank…you Belarus for your concern. The flowers are…nice."

She gave a small frown and walked over to his bedside. Her hand slipped under his bangs and he gave a small yelp at her cool touch, pulling away. "You sound like you have a cold. Can't have that, now can we?" She walked away from the bed and looked around the room. " I mean, we have to have at least one survivor from this whole ordeal."

It felt as though each individual word had rattled his head. He began to push himself up farther off the bed. "W-What?"

She turned her head slightly so he could only see one eye. "Oh. They didn't tell you?"

The words were so innocent and yet they struck unmentionable fear straight into his heart.

"Belarus…" The warning was hissed from Japan quietly, like a snake warning of a strike.

She puckered her lip and looked deeply sad for a moment as she ignored Japan. " I heard that the doctors say he'll probably die within the week. Or, maybe he just won't wake up ever again. Both are pretty bad, wouldn't you agree?"

Arthur felt what little color he had in his face drain, suddenly feeling light headed. More images of a motionless France, now lying in a bed with machines breathing for him, with no hope of him waking up, flooded his already terror wracked brain. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears, reminding him of Francis' heartbeat he had listened to only two days before. He remembered how strong and quick it had been, how comforting it was. The thought of it slowing before coming to stop all together brought pure panic raging throughout his body.

Japan stood quickly, approaching England's bedside again. "Get out, Belarus," he said sternly, his normally even voice pitching with barely constrained furry. His attention diverted away from the sadistic Belarus in front of him as he heard a choked mutter escape the bed-ridden nation's lips

"N-no," Arthur choked, staring at the bed sheets, bringing his hands up to clasp his head. "No! You, you have to be…YOU HAVE TO BE LYING." Tears flooded his eyes and it took all he had to keep them from falling. His throat burned, as more images washed across his mind, flying past behind his mind, showing him horrible thought after horrible thought. "H-he's going to be ok, fuck! NO! THIS CAN'T HAPPEN!" England squeezed his eyes shut, giving his head a shake, trying to dislodge the horrific images. "You're lying!" he shouted, before his voice seemed to lose all force. "P-please tell me you're lying," he muttered, his voice no higher than a whisper.

Kiku turned back to look at Belarus, who was still standing at the end of the bed, gazing at England with a miniscule pleased smile on her face. "Belarus! Get. Out."

Belarus gave nod and walked to the door, a small swing in her steps. She paused by the door; the dress coming to a still with a small swish. "I'd never lie about something like that." She said and ducked out the door.

Arthur could feel the tears prickling in his eyes and held a bandaged hand up. The fabric soaked up the water quickly. "No…Francis. Tell me she's lying!" he cried, more to himself than anyone else. There was pain again in his wrist as he tugged against the IV and the simple twinge sent a trigger loose. Like a taunt string finally cut, his body slackened as he began to cry. Bent double, he cried into his hands, large shuddering breaths wracked his body as he tried to stop himself. The emotions had reign and the tears dripped on, burning his face as he tried to rub them away constantly. The door opened with a small click again and he took a deep breath to look up. He knew he looked like he had just been crying, and there was very little he could do to change that fact as he looked up to see America.

Hand splayed on the door and chest fluctuating slightly as though he had just been running, America's face fluctuated between surprise and confusion. He looked upset when England turned away and dried another eye. "What happ-"

"Bloody Belarus is what happened." His voice was flat and the mention of her name sent a new flash of hot fear. It was her fault that Francis was in the hospital. If it wasn't for her, the crazy Frenchman would be waiting on him hand and foot and never leaving his bedside. Not that he wanted that. The thought turned the flush of anger into embarrassment. Of course not, he didn't want that.

"Belarus? That bitch! I thought I told her to stay away from here," America raved, stalking closer to the bed, anger radiating off him. "If I find her anywhere near the ICU…"

"Where is the ICU?" Arthur exclaimed, one of his damp hands reaching out and clutching Alfred's arm as if for dear life. "That's where France is! Why didn't you tell me something was so wrong?" He tightened his grip on America's arm when he didn't answer. "Where is he? Why won't you tell me?" he shouted, emerald eyes boring straight into their blue counter parts. Once more he was met with silence, Alfred breaking away from the stare but made no move to remove England's hand.

Arthur couldn't take it anymore. No one was moving in the room. It was too quiet. England could tell that they wouldn't tell him, and he couldn't stand to be babied like this anymore. He brought his left hand up to wipe his eyes once more, to make sure he hadn't left any stray tears. The IV pulled at him once again, sending a dull throb up his arm. Arthur turned on the offending tube. He released Alfred's arm and wrapped clumsy bandaged fingers around the tape and needle.

America reached to stop him. "What do you think you're doing?" he yelped, placing one hand delicately on England's shoulder.

Arthur didn't look back at him and merely kept trying to pull the tape away. "I'm going to go see him. Right now, I just have to see him."

America looked flustered and waved his hands as he spoke. "No! I mean…I don't think you'd want to see him like this right now." He tugged at Arthur's shoulder, "I know you're worried about him. Fuck, we all are." He trailed off and didn't continue for a moment and watched as England continued to try to pull at the IV in frustration. "But, he doesn't look so good right now."

At that simple sentence, Arthur's head snapped around and he stared at Alfred with darkened eyes and parted lips. His brow furrowed further and an angry flush filled his cheeks. "He doesn't look so good right now?" America recoiled at the calm tone.

Arthur knew he shouldn't take his anger, frustration and fears on him, however another part of his mind said screw it, and out poured the bitter and panicked words. "He doesn't look so good right now!? The bastard just tried to kill himself and you're telling me he doesn't look so good right now? Of course he doesn't!" his hands furrowed into his hair. "Fuck Alfred, HE JUST TRIED TO THROW HIMSELF OFF A FUCKING ROOF! He just tried to take his own life in front of our eyes and now all this shit happened." He turned burning jade eyes to America. "So, tell me Alfred. Who the hell would look decent after all this? I would like to meet them because they would have to be out of their fucking minds! So don't you dare get in my way from seeing him." He turned back and glowered at the IV and began to pull at it again. "So help me god, I will claw my way to him if I have too."

Silence filled the room and Alfred took a step back from Arthur. He pretended to not notice and finally pulled the needle away from his arm. A small dot of blood welled up from the absence of the needle and he swiped at it with the blaring white bandages on his arm. England felt a hand clamp onto his shoulder and he turned to yell at America, but stopped seeing his eyes and wary smile.

"Well, there's no need to claw your way though." He offered his hand, "Let's go, yeah?"

Arthur looked at the offered hand and grasped it. He would rather die than admit it, but he was pathetically weak right now and didn't know how far he could get without any help. America's hands pushed against his back gently and waited as he pulled his legs over the bed's edge. His head throbbed and he swayed for a moment, silently grateful for the supportive grasp.

"Alright, hold on. Sit right there." America let go soon and went rummaging through a stack of linens lying on an empty bed adjacent to England's. Finally he pulled out a soft grey robe and brought it back over. England took the thin robe with a questioning look.

"What's this for?" he asked.

"Well those gowns are pretty revealing in the back there. Thought you might want this rather than flashing your ass to everyone." He shrugged, "I mean, I know France would appreciate it and all, but–"

"Just give it to me." He muttered, snatching the robe away. He pulled it on around his shoulders and tentatively stood off the bed. America had his arms outstretched as though he were expecting him to fall on his face. Arthur scowled and tied the robe shut with small difficulty. He slipped into a pair of slippers America toed to him and straightened his back as best he could. He could feel himself wobble a little and sighed.

"Ready?"

"Yes."

* * *

  
The walk to the ICU wing was harder than Arthur had thought it would be. He had to stop often and when no one else was in the hallway, he would lean heavily on Alfred's shoulder. He had pitched forward once, the slippers having a pathetic grip on the ground and was only stopped from having a broken nose by Alfred's quick hands catching his waist. They had walked by the waiting room adjacent to France's to see a passed out Italy sleeping in Germany's lap. The German had his eyes closed and rested against the wall, but his eyes flew open when they tugged by. Seeing who it was, he had relaxed again and shut his eyes.

America steered England to the door where France was. He stopped for a moment to open the door and Arthur steeled himself for the worst. The room was a bit smaller than his had been, though had the same eggshell white walls and a single window on the outer wall. He glanced at these first before bringing his eyes to rest on the figure lying too still in the bed. The sheets were pulled up to his chest, pale arms draped over them, with all shorts of wires running away from them. France's face was slack, most of his face taken up by an air mask strapped tightly to his face, the plastic fogging up with each struggled breath. His once brightly golden hair curtained his face, faded and knotted, looking uncharacteristically greasy. The once lively glow that Francis' cheeks had was faded away, making his skin look ghostly transparent.

"F-Francis," Arthur whispered, voice cracking as he stared on in horror. He had never seen someone hooked up to so many machines before, had never seen France so bad off. He took a step towards the bed, Alfred moving with him, helping along until he was only inches away.

"Ah…hold on a sec," America said, glancing about the room. He left Arthur standing on his own power as he quickly pulled a chair over for England to sit in. Carefully, England lowered himself into it, never taking his eyes off the still Frenchman. America stood behind him, shifting from one foot to the other, glancing nervously between Arthur and Francis, not sure if this was such a good idea. "Arthur…"

England glanced at him, trying to make his face as blank as he could. "Thank you, Alfred," he said, before turning to look back at France.

"Uh…yeah, sure," America replied, rubbing his head before fixing his glasses and clearing his throat. "I'll…just let you two be then." He received only a gracious nod from Arthur. With a small sigh, America turned and left through the door, easing it closed behind him.

England just continued to watch Francis, taking in ever inch of the man. The beeping of the heart monitor echoed ominously in the silent room, following the painfully slow heartbeat. The oxygen hissed as it pumped its way into the mask, trying to force air down France's throat without having to put a tube down his throat to breath for him. Two bags hung from the IV tower, one holding a clear liquid while another held a sickly diluted yellow color. Arthur cringed as he followed two separate tubes all the way into France's skin. _T-that one must be for the poison. _He sat in silence once again, not sure what to say. What was he supposed to say? Arthur didn't even know if Francis' could hear him. "Y-you idiot," he said at last, his right hand coming up slowly to gentle grasp France's limp right hand. "I thought you promised me you wouldn't make me worry like that." His left hand came up to grasp the motionless limb as well, trailing his fingers over the all too visible veins. "You sure have the monopoly on nearly killing me with worry, my friend," he muttered with a sorrowful laugh.

Again, he let the room fall into silence, somewhat comforted by the rhythmic beating of the machines. He looked up into Francis' face, before reaching up and brushing away some strands of hair and tucking them behind his ear. France's eyes looked too sunken into his head to be real, dark circles loomed underneath making Francis look much older than he used to. Arthur brought his hand away, feeling tears burning in his eyes. He had cried too much already, more than he had in the last century. Both his hands moved to clasp France's squeezing them tightly.

'_Get the hell away from me, I fucking hate you!_' He flinched at the memory of his own words he had only said recently. America had been egging him on and when France had appeared and, well, he had exploded on him. They had always seemed to do a strange dance of taunts and leers at each other for as long as he had remembered. It was only more recently that the harsh words had become one sided. _And I was too idiotic to see that_, he thought to himself, stoking the pad of his bandaged thumb over France's wrist. Arthur's eyes didn't leave France's figure as he thought about wars they had fought together, against each other. Times they had been the closest of friends, perhaps even more and then the other darker times when there had been no one he had wanted to see dead more. The irony of this now settled uncomfortably in his stomach. When had a game of words start to have double meanings, unreciprocated feelings turning dark and hurting?

Arthur placed his head on the bed, mocking memories playing though his mind as he thought with baited breath what would happen to him if his life long friend and enemy parted.

He really didn't know.

He felt his shoulders tremble and in his head he yelled at himself for being such a ridiculous emotional wreck. Babies probably cried less than he did today. But his heart over ruled and soon once again he felt himself sobbing.

* * *

France felt as though he was swimming in a blanket of darkness, lost and confused. He didn't know how long he had been like this, not knowing how much time had passed. It wasn't long ago that he though he heard a familiar voice and he tried to move towards it, using all the strength he had. The closer he got, the more his body hurt, everything ached. He almost stopped, wanting to allow darkness to swallow him again and take the pain away. Then he heard someone sobbing, the sound penetrating right to his heart, hurting worse than anything his body could feel. He worked harder, pulling himself out of the comforting darkness and into the full out pain of his body.

France could feel someone grasping his hand tightly, making needles of pain shoot up his arm. He struggled to open his eyes, succeeding only a fraction at first, gazing at the hunched over figure through his hazy eyelashes. As time passed, it slowly came into focus, bringing into view a person who he had studied and watched enough to know anywhere. He gasped in air, feeling sweet oxygen force his way into his lungs. It burned at first, but the pain quelled as long as he lay still. "_An…gle…te…rre?_" he was barely able to gasp out, looking down at the hay colored hair covered head.

Arthur's head shot up from the covers and stared bewilderedly at him. "Fra-Francis?" his voice was hopeful. He stared at the hazy blue eyes and nearly started weeping again. He had started to believe that he might never see them open again.

France looked at Arthur in wonderment. _He's alive! Remerciez mon dieu, he's alive!_ He saw the tears forming in England's already puffy red eyes, dried and still drying tears streaking his cheeks. His mouth twitched as he tried to smile reassuringly at the Englishman, but the small motion caused pain to wash over him in a tidal wave. He didn't have enough strength to try and hide it, the agony making his eyes squeeze shut in pain as his breathing hitched and wheezed.

Arthur panicked seeing the obvious pain in his face and held on tightly to his hand. His torso swiveled as he called out for help, America's face popping in almost immediately.

"What! What's wrong?" He stopped halfway in the room seeing France's face.

"H-he's awake. The stupid git's finally awake" Arthur removed one of his hands and gripped the sheets tightly. "Thank God." Another tear fell down his face, this time not from grief. Alfred ran out of the room and was calling for a doctor as he disappeared into the hallway.

France felt him turn away, and gave Arthur's hand the lightest of squeezes, ignoring the pain that shot up his arm. He didn't want England to leave, not when he had come so close to losing him. Francis tried to turn his head to look at him, confused when even that motion caused him pain. What had happened to him? Why was everything so…painful?

"I thought you were going to leave me again." Arthur said softly, his head bowed back to the bed and placed his lips chastely on France's hand. His cheeks were hot when he pulled back up and couldn't meet Francis' eyes. Rather he looked at the skin as he traced around it lightly.

France realized something didn't feel right as Arthur touched his skin. He felt something cold and harsh, not the usual feeling of skin on skin. His blue eyes looked down, seeing the bandage that wound around Arthur's hand and wrist, all the way up to his elbow. He looked up at England and bore his stare into him until he met his gaze. When relieved green eyes met his, he tried to will his mouth to move. It was heavy and again very painful. France tried to will the questions to the other nation's mind, his fingers brushing against the bandage as much as he could move them.

Arthur looked down when the fingers brushed against the fabric of the bandages. "It's fine" he answered the silent question. He looked into the pain filled blue eyes and would have bolted for the doctor had he more strength.

Francis' eyes started to water. The bandage was there because of him. He had caused England pain, something he would never do if he could help it. Images of Arthur dangling over the ledge, and limp in America's arm flashed across his eyes, and made his eyes tear even more. France couldn't stand the thought of having hurt Arthur, his _Angleterre_, his beloved.

Arthur looked back at Francis' eyes and was startled by the onslaught of tears. He began to pull his hands away in fear that he was hurting him. "O-Oh god! I'm not hurting you, am I?" He voiced. His green eyes flickered to the door. "Where is that fucking doctor?" He felt a small tug on the sleeve of the robe and looked back at the bed.

France grabbed what he could of Arthur and held on as tightly as possible, panic overriding the pain the movement caused. He waited till he was sure England wouldn't try to move away again, before he slowly and painstakingly ran another quivering finger over the bandages on his right wrist.

England scowled and looked down at the swaths of bandages. "I told you it's fine. They fixed it up well, can't even feel it." He paused for a moment and rotated his wrist experimentally. It felt tender, but not necessarily painful. "I haven't had a chance to see it myself, but America claims it had to be stitched and…uh…all better!" he finished lamely. He had been watching France's eyes widen and decided not to mention the cauterized bit.

France picked up the slight hesitation in Arthur's words, and the way his eyes darted away quickly from his. He narrowed his own eyes, and looked straight at Arthur, not even daring to blink. Francis mustered up all the energy he could and gave England's hand another squeeze. He had done this to Arthur, and as much as it pained him, he wanted to find out everything he had done to him, so that one-day, he could hopefully make it up to him.

Arthur glared at the ill man and remained silent. Finally he gave up and explained the rest. He could see that moving even the slightest was causing him pain and the idiot kept touching the bandage the longer he stayed silent. "As I said," he said casually as if talking to a stranger about the weather, "America said it had to be stitched…and cauterized."

Francis' eyes jumped open before he could stop them. Slowly, he brought his eyes to look at the bandaged wrist, and saw for the first time that in fact both Arthur's hands were bandaged. His heart ached and tears stung his eyes but would not fall.

Arthur didn't notice the tears and continued on. "It's nothing a pair of gloves can't cover. Honestly, this hand is only scraped. With the amount of bandages they placed on it you'd think it was about to fall off." He eyed the bandages with dismay and a little contempt and looked back France's face, eyes quickly filling with concern.

Images ravaged France's mind, pushing their way through no matter how much he tried to block them out. Pictures of England screaming in agony, as his skin was burned closed, his hands so damaged that at any moment they would fall off and leave his _Angleterre_ maimed. He desperately tried to push the images away, but they persisted, even as he closed his eyes tightly against them. Francis wrenched his head away from Arthur, feeling as if he had no right to look at the sweet man. His body rebelled against the action, white searing pain shooting across his vision. It added to his already building hurt to cry, but the tears failed to fall. His body quaked and shook with the tremors, only adding more to his agony. His breathing hitched and quivered, the monitor beeping was suddenly too loud as it followed his erratic heart.

Arthur watched as France twisted away and his heart felt heavy. "Hey! Look at me!" He waited for a reaction and when he got none, he felt angry. Not at France directly, more at the fact that he was feeling guilty. Over this stupid little wound, something that wouldn't impede on his life and would only be a little scar. Who cares if it looked bad, it was only flesh. "France!" he snapped more forcefully, with a tone he had used on Alfred when he had been younger and in trouble. "Look. At. Me."

France tried to refuse at first, only pressing the side of his cheek into the pillow further as if he could bury his face all together. Arthur's tone made him reluctantly look at the green eyes man, afraid to upset him more. Stubbornly, Francis kept his eyes from locking with Arthur's, unable to bring himself to the act. It was bad enough that he had caused Arthur so much pain, guilt rose in him as his eyes fell onto the bandages once more.

For a moment Arthur felt as though he were telling a child that there weren't any monsters about to eat him hiding under their bed. "This," he said gesturing to the damaged wrist, "is nothing." He tried his best to keep annoyance out of his voice as France still refused to meet his eyes. "It'll heal and life will go on." His less damaged hand reached out and tilted France's chin fractionally in an attempt to have their gazes meet. He could guess what he was thinking and frowned more. "You didn't do this to me. You didn't drag a shard of metal into my arm, okay? My grip faltered and I gashed my arm myself. I cut my arm, not you. So do not ever think that this is your fault."

He let go and moved back to holding his hand gently.

France tried to will his mouth to work, to open, to argue. He wanted to shout that this was all his fault, that if it wasn't for him...Once more his body reacted badly, muscles spasming as he attempted to control them. He sucked in a breath through clenched teeth, trying once more with all his might to open his mouth.

Arthur gave a mighty glare and tensed, "Don't you even think about arguing with me." He looked to the door when a shuffle could be heard outside. Through the sliver of glass in the door he could see what was obviously a doctor about to enter. He looked back at Francis in relief, however his voice was still edged. "If you even try to blame yourself I'll fucking tie you down to this bed," he whispered.

The doctor was a tall man with dressed in the stereotypical white lab coat, with dress pants and a tie underneath. His hair was a rich chocolate brown, graying slightly at the temples. He came forward to the end of bed, glancing at England with an unpleased look before looking down to view at the chart in front of him. His green eyes widening slightly in an amazed disbelief as he looked up at France then back down the chart. "Hello, I'm Doctor Howes," he said with a practiced warmth in his voice while flipping through a few pages. Dr. Howes looked up at the pair again, a content smile spreading across his lips. "I'm glad to see both of you are awake. Especially you, Mr. Bonnefoy, you gave us quite a scare a couple of times."

Francis, who had been following the doctor's movements as best he could with his haze filled eyes, looked down at the bed in shame. It seemed he had been worrying everyone lately. He felt Arthur give his hand another small reassuring squeeze.  
Arthur looked at the doctor in concern, "Dr. Howes…" The doctor looked up from a paper "How…how bad was it?" He looked at Francis who had closed his eyes momentarily. His voiced lowered and was strained. "Will there be any long term damage?"

Dr. Howes looked down at the charts once more, flipping to one of the pages near the top. "At this point we're not completely sure. The poison came close to shutting down several systems. He had stopped breathing by the time he was brought in. If he had come in any later, I don't know if we could have done anything for him. You were very lucky. At any rate Mr. Bonnefoy, you'll be extremely weak for quite awhile." Dr. Howes replaced the chart into its holder by the bed and headed over to the countless machines by France's side.

Switching his green eyes from Francis' face to the doctor, Arthur studied him as he thought about the doctor's words. "Will he be able to leave the hospital soon?" he knew it was doubtful, but he still had to ask. France's eyes opened slightly to watch the Doctor again.

Dr. Howes reached up and checked the bag holding the yellowish liquid. "Not for some time, I'm afraid. We have to keep a careful eye on him." The doctor seemed satisfied with the bag and brought his hands down to the metal box attached to the same stand. "I heard you're in some discomfort. That's from the poison. It started to strip the protective coating from you nerve endings, causing them to misfire signals to your brain," Howes rambled on, pulling out a small key and unlocking the box, allowing it to swing open. "Your brain interprets these signals as pain, so moving around is going to be painful for some time. Luckily, however, we stopped it before it could come permanent. The damage is reversible with the right treatment." The door swung open, allowing Arthur a view of a couple different buttons. Dr. Howes tapped the button with an upward arrow a couple of times, looking up to watch on the monitor as France's heart rate and breathing slowly evened out. "There we go, that should make you a little more comfortable," Dr. Howes said before closing the box back up.

Arthur let out a sigh of relief as he watched France's face start to soothe, his eyes lids drooping slightly, and pain seeped out of the blue eyes. Unfortunately for him, the doctor remembered his presence and turned a disapproving gaze onto the English man.

"As for you, Mr. Kirkland, you should still be in bed," his voice was stern, not nearly as comforting as it had been only moments before. "The amount of blood you lost is a serious matter. You nearly exsanguinated, and you were lucky we were able to cauterize it in time. You need to rest and keep hydrated before anemia becomes a problem. Just because you were off the blood transfusion doesn't mean you're out of the woods just yet." He crossed his arms; eyes boring into him, looking much like a father scolding a child.

With an air of petulance, Arthur frowned and crossed his own arms, "I'm fine right now." He was continuing to stare back at the doctor when the door opened.

America poked his head in and Arthur could see his face was sheepish and…there was something else but he couldn't place what exactly it was. "Hey Doc! If you're done here, there's a girl I just happened to run into who seems to have a bloody nose. Could you take a look?"

Dr. Howes broke his stare with England and turned to look at America over his shoulder. "I'll be there in a moment," he chimed, his voice once more light hearted. He unfolded his arms and glanced over France's vitals once more. Before turning to head towards the doorway, he looked sternly at Arthur. "When I come back you had better be in bed, Mr. Kirkland. I'm not exaggerating when I say you truly nearly bled to death. I don't wish to restrain you to a bed but I will if you continue with this nonsense." He brought his head around to look at France, smiling sweetly as he noticed the tired country. "Get some rest, Mr. Bonnefoy. Good day, gentlemen." With that, he turned on his heals and followed America out, Alfred giving Arthur a wink before he eased the door closed.

"Bugger off." Arthur waited for the distinct click of the door, however it didn't come. He turned slightly to the entryway, which was still open slightly. It was closed enough he decided.

France felt the morphine wash over him in a sudden rush, bring with it blissful relief and numbness. Exhaustion began seeping into him, no longer kept at bay by wave after wave of pain. Francis felt his eyes lids begin to droop, the dark haze of drug induced sleep hovering on the edge of his vision. He fought against it as well as he could, not wanting to lose sight of Arthur.

Something in his eyes made England want to console him. Instead, he sat in the chair, holding France's hand gently once more, and counted the rhythmic beeps from the heart monitor. "It's alright," he finally muttered, "go to sleep. I'll be here when you wake up again."

France brought his eyes to look at him, continuing to fight off the clouds of haze almost pulling him down into oblivion. The fight made his breath come in spurts, his breath fogging up in the plastic mask as he willed his trembling hand to give Arthur's a squeeze. He was terrified to let go of Arthur, afraid that if he lets go he'll fade away. Afraid if he fell asleep, he'll wake up to find England dead and all of this being a dream. Images from the roof, seeing Arthur's blood against the dreary sky, promised nothing but nightmares and terrors if he let go. It was selfish, he knew, to make Arthur stay here with him, but he wasn't willing to let him go. Francis barely tried to keep the terror and pleading from his eyes.

England was waiting for France to go to sleep, but realized quickly that the stubborn idiot was trying to stay awake. Knowing anything he could say would be met by a stubbornness that rivaled his own, he began to rise from the chair.

The doctor's words seemed more realistic as he struggled to stand. Such a simple task had become nearly impossible without help. The idea of being so helpless made England mad and the anger gave him just enough energy to stand. He tried to cover his pants with a light cough and shuffled closer to the head of the bed. He bent over and placed chapped lips onto his brow. He tucked his nose into the flaxen hair and murmured quietly, "Get some rest."

France squeezed his eyes shut as he lifted his arm up and grasped the front of England's robe weakly, ignoring the pain that ravaged him. It wasn't as bad as it was before, the medicine able to take some of the edge away. Suddenly, tears began rolling down his cheeks, letting lose after refusing to fall for the longest time. Slowly, he opened his eyes and tried to plead with Arthur. He wanted to be near him, to feel the heat coming from his skin, to know that his heart still beat.

Arthur pulled away only enough to look into the fevered eyes. The weak grasp on the robe held him still and it took Arthur the longest time to figure out what Francis was asking silently for. Upon the realization he shook his head and kissed the tear stained cheek. "No. You need to rest; no doubt I'd only keep you awake if I was in bed with you." As the words left his mouth he realized the double meaning and flushed heavily. His voice skipped a little as he hurried on, "I promise I'll be here when you wake up though. America will no doubt be making sure I'm fine, so no need to worry." He brushed a lock of matted hair away, "Please sleep."

France's tried to shake his head while attempting to tighten his grip. His hand and limbs were still weak from lying still, and the damage caused by the poison wasn't helping. A choked sob escaped his lips, not completely drowned out by the hissing of the air mask. He locked his eyes with England again, fear shooting across the blue pools. He didn't want to be left alone. Not now.

Arthur looked down at the terrified man with an unreadable expression for a heartbeat. His hands reached up and covered France's hand on his robe and removed it as gently as he could. Without looking at the French man he slowly began to walk way towards slightly opened door.

Panic seized France as he watched England move away with wide eyes. He tried to push himself up, to go after Arthur. His whole body trembled with effort and pain as he felt his nerves send a new burst of misfires across his body. He could hear his the heart monitor beep loudly, speeding up as it followed his now racing heart. Once again, his breath was coming in heaving pants and grunts as he willed his body to move. The entire ordeal was exhausting and only resulted in him being able to rise mere inches off the rise incline of the bed, his head barely leaving the pillow.

Arthur whipped around, hand on the handle of the door, when he heard the monitor go frantic. The door shut with a decisive click and he rushed to Francis' bedside. "Francis! Stop! Lay back down," his hands pushed gently on the man's chest and shoulder to stop him from struggling. He stared at him in disbelief. "Honestly, what the hell were you thinking!" He muttered nearly inaudible curses and swears under his lightly ragged breath. He shook his head while his hand buried itself in his own hair. "It's obvious you need someone here." He paused and quirked an eyebrow at the door the doctor had exited minutes previously. "And the good doctor did say I needed to go back to bed," the words were said more to himself as justification. He frowned and gave a deep sigh. Slipping off the sandals, he began to crawl into the bed, mindful of the seemingly endless wires. "Just don't get used to this, alright? One time deal," the words came out soft from embarrassment.

France watched him move with a sort of disbelief, a small twinge of relief eased across his body. He moved to shift over, to give the man more room in the rather small bed. The movement sent the expected pain but also resulted in a twang of pain from his previously dormant left shoulder. The unexpected jolt left his lips in a strangled grunt, face wincing and eyes twitching slightly.

Arthur stopped moving to give a half-hearted glare at Francis, "Stop moving you git! You'll only hurt yourself. I'm fine, just give me a minute." He continued to shimmy up the bed until he was resting semi comfortably on the, in Arthur's opinion, elf sized bed. His left arm rested above France's head and his right partially hanging off the railing of the bed. He rested his head gently by France's shoulder, careful to not place any pressure on his body.

The movement made Francis flinch, even the slightest bit made his skin breakout in a pins and needles sensation. Once Arthur relaxed on the bed and everything was still once again was he able to relax. He felt the heat from Arthur seep into his own skin, aiding the pain medication as it soothed his tired body. The hazy at the edge of his vision returned with new vigor, and this time did not cause him fear. He felt his own eyes start to flutter close, until he was gazing out from behind the veil of his eyelashes.

England watched silently, eyes flickering up at Francis and then down to his chest to watch it rise and fall. "Go to sleep frog. No excuse not to now." He shifted his right hand to stop it from falling asleep.

France sighed contently, warily and weakly leaning closer to England, taking in his sweet scent even through the plastic air mask. He breathed in deeply, his voice coming out less than a whisper. "_M-m-mer-ci An-gle-terre._" France allowed his own body to finally go slack, finally letting the darkness take him without fear.

Watching him finally enter tentative sleep, Arthur gave a small smile and closed his own eyes. The machinery whirling left him awake though and his mind drifted. He looked down to check on France's breathing despite hearing the rasp emitted from the air mask. Comforted by the deep and slow breathing from sleep, he turned to look at his own hand. For a while now, a small warm burning sensation had been making itself known. Now it hurt more and started to itch and Arthur wished he could take the bandages to scratch at it. He turned his gaze away when he saw the door open from his peripheral and in walked America.

Expecting a knowing smile or taunt, Arthur was surprised when America only asked quietly, "How is he?"

Arthur shrugged with one shoulder and looked up at the ceiling. "I don't know, better than I had hoped." He admitted.

America nodded and finally a small smile was on his lips. "Well, seeing as you've decided to spend the night here," he ignored the heated glare England directed towards him, "I'll see to it then. No one will come in here. I mean, other than the doctor," he amended. He walked closer to the bed, his eyes sad. "You do realize though you'll need to go back to your room eventually to get more morphine though."

Arthur nodded slightly, he had guessed that but he didn't care about that right now. "I'll met it when the time comes. Right now, I'm not leaving his side. He seems to do incredibly stupid stuff if I'm not there." They lapsed into silence and he turned to look into the bright blue eyes of Alfred. "America…" he began hesitantly.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

"What're heroes for?" he said with a shrug. He gave another bright smile and left the room quietly.

Seconds passed as Arthur rested back on the bed. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He began to wonder if the bed was more of a dwarf size rather than an elf's and eventually fell into a dreamless slumber.

* * *

Please review and tell us what you think! Thanks for reading.


	3. Chapter 3

Hey guys! Thank you all so much for all the reviews, they make us so happy and we both are ecstatic every time we read them. We hope you enjoy this next chapter, we had to divide it into two parts because it was so long.

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**The Fading Rose **

**Chapter Three**

Despite being in the hazy warmth of sleep and only half conscious of his own surroundings, Arthur knew one thing for certain: his arm felt as if he had landed into a colony of fire ants while being held to a welder's torch at the same time. He felt his breath grow heavy with gasps and woke quickly as his arm flared in pain again. Curling into himself out of an automatic response to the pain, he hit his wrist against the railings of the bed and opened his eyes.

He was still lying next to Francis, the nearly melodic beeps of the heart monitor announcing that he was still alive, and he twisted slightly to sit up and not tug on the myriad of wires around the bed. Flexing his arm as he tried to sit up, hot pain raced though his nerves and he bit back a small cry.

"Fuck," he muttered into his good arm, not wanting to wake Francis. When the pain dulled slightly, he cradled his arm gently and placed pressure when appropriate to stifle the raw burning. Despite the fact that seeing his friend sleeping peacefully put him at ease, the pain's swells and ebbs of burning set his whole body on edge. He clenched his teeth and sat rigidly, but in silence except for heavy pants rushing from thin lips. Needing some form of release from the pain, he mouthed as many curses and swears as his brain could compile and bit his tongue intermittently.

During some time, as he dealt with the pain on his own, his movement must have been noticed though the sliver of glass in the door for America came in without a knock. England looked up with a frown and Alfred soon matched it with his own.

"Hey! Awake again….dude, what's wrong?

"Nothing." He scowled when Alfred's frown became darker and then switched to a more patronizing look.

"Yes, you always cringe in pain for fun." He muttered sarcastically. Walking closer to the bed, the nation folded his arms with a sigh, "The morphine ran out didn't it?"

"No." was the response, because if he admitted he was in pain he would have to leave and he refused to be absent from Francis' bedside when he woke up. "And keep your voice down, " he added for good measure, his own sleep and pain graveled voice no more than a whisper.

America gave a long disbelieving look at his former caretaker and tossed his hand quickly though his hair. "Alright, this is ridiculous."

England looked at him warily as he stalked closer to the bed, the look on America's face made him nervous. "I said I'm fi-FUCK!"

England had been about to tell him to leave him alone and go back outside because he was clearly fine, at least that had been until Alfred had accidently grabbed his hurt forearm. In the sudden onslaught of pain, Arthur had forgotten to shut his mouth or stifle the cry that fell from his lips. He buried his face quickly though in the crook of his good arm, silencing any other sound.

America, realizing the mistake, had let go immediately and looked down at England horrified. "Shit! Arthur, I'm sorry!" his eyes filled with concern from behind his glasses. " You need some pain killers though. You can't do this to yourself! It's crazy!"

"I'm not going anywhere" England replied, which would have sound confidant and steadfast had he still not been covering his mouth from any whimper that could have been uttered.

"Really." England looked at America who now looked more than frustrated. Despite his quite tone, the words were forceful. "Fine, but do you think France would really take it well if you're in tears when he wakes up?

England looked away from the blue eyes, his voice still in a whisper, "I promised him I wouldn't leave. If nothing else, I'm a man of my word Alfred. This is nothing."

America stood there looking every inch most absolutely not convinced, especially with the flecks of tears that were gathering in the corner of the older nation's eyes from the pain. He still tried to reason with him however, knowing that it was necessary that England take care of himself and not force himself though the pain. "I'll get Italy in here," he offered, "you need medical attention too Arthur. It's going to hurt and you're going to be in pain. Go back to your room and get the stupid morphine and you'll be back before he even wakes up."

"No."

With yet another sigh, Alfred closed his eyes briefly and tilted his head to the side, "I'm sorry Arthur," England looked at him with slight trepidation at the words, "I've tried to reason with you–"

"Reason?" Arthur cut in.

"–And now we're going to do this my way," Alfred continued. Quickly, like a trout darting in a stream, America looped his arms around and under Arthur and promptly lifted him off the bed.

"Bloody Fuck!" England hissed, his voice rising slightly. He didn't like being hoisted out of the bed like a small child and it also sent a new lace of pain though his arm.

France was roused from blissful sleep by the commotion, his body rocking with the bed as England struggled against America. He watched with dazed eyes, brain still numb with sleep and drugs as he tried to make sense of the events unfolding before him. He recognized them quickly, hearing America and England's voices even while he slept. Slowly the sleep was chased away as understanding and pain brought him back to reality, the promise of returning to sleep lost as the words started making sense to his confounded mind.

America didn't see Francis awakening and continued to hold the struggling nation in a firm grip. "Sorry Artie," he gave a small smile, "You need more morphine.

England gave a weak swat with his good wrist against Alfred's chest, "D-Don't call me Artie!" he shut his eyes when the weight of his body was left on his bad arm and gave a small groan. "L-let me go Alfred," he finished weakly.

America gave him a small gentle jostle to keep him from falling and shook his head. "Nope. Right now we are going to your room and the doc. You aren't the only one who can be stubborn, old man." He began to walk towards the door.

"I said no Alfred!" England snapped, punching his shoulder.

France's eyes opened wide as he watched what was going on. England was in pain, pain because he didn't want to go back to his room, because he promised he would be there when he woke up. Guilt settled heavily in his stomach as he tried to will his mouth to move.

"_An-ngle-ter-re_!" he finally managed, trying to prop himself up off the bed. Pain immediately engulfed him, his trembling limbs unable to support him as he fell back against the inclined bed.

Green eyes looked over the leather-donned shoulder in both surprise and worry. "Francis…" Arthur broke off and turned his face away, not wanting him to see any sign of pain in his face and gritted his teeth to not make another noise.

France could see England trying to hide his pain from him. Was he really hurting so much? Blue eyes began to water at the thought, France was barely able to breath. "_An-gle_…" His voice caught in his throat, his airway closing slightly, blocking even the air from the mask from making its way through. He began coughing, his chest aching as he tried to gasp in air.

Arthur could hear the coughing and when America turned to see if he was all right, he could see that he was gasping too. "Put me down Alfred." He gritted out from clenched teeth.

"N-n-no!" The words came out without him thinking, further stealing what little oxygen he had. He locked eyes with America, praying that his message got across. He had to get England to go back to his room. America just had to make sure England was all right, that he wouldn't be in pain any longer. This was all his fault. Everything was his fault.

America could see the pleading look in Francis' eyes and looked down at Arthur who was still scowling despite the clear pain written across his features. He shook his head slowly, his mind made up. "No way Arthur," he moved closer to Francis' bedside, but gave England a disapproving look. You ain't in charge here, alright? You are going to your room right now." He looked over to Francis, "Hope that's okay?" he asked.

France nodded stiffly, his blue eyes locking with England's green ones, his own radiating with the self-punishment he was putting himself through. He felt as though he had betrayed England yet again, that he being alive was only causing him pain. "Oui. T-take hi-im." He gasped again, hoping America could hear him. He looked away once America seemed to nod at him, unable to bear to see the pain that England was trying to hide.

America shifting a spluttering England in his arms, gave him another smile and a nod. "Right." And with that he left the room while Arthur began to half- heartedly spew insults and swears.

Francis turned back to watch their backs disappear from the room, the door slamming shut behind them. His eyes soon found their way to the ceiling, the sickly white offering no comfort from the guilt that ravished him. The room was silent, except for the beeping of his own heart, which screamed at him the shame he felt. It seemed to be saying, your fault, your fault over and over again, echoing loudly in his ears. Once more France had caused England pain. What good was he alive? He shut his eyes as dark thoughts ran through his head. He was better off dead. England would have moved on eventually, gone back to his cheery self. He wished the others hadn't interfered, that England hadn't stopped him. England wouldn't have had to go to the hospital if it hadn't been for him. England wouldn't be in pain, wouldn't be sad, and wouldn't cry. Everything was his fault.

He was no good to anyone, his country was unable to defend itself, or be useful in any battles. No wonder everyone hated him. The others, they were here out of pity, not out of any true care. He was their punching bag, a role he had resigned himself to for too long – not that he had the strength to stop them or prove them wrong. He deserved that life, being the wretched being he was. He didn't deserve the blissful rest of death. No, he deserved to live in pain and agony for the rest of his life. His left arm twitched, tugging slightly on the many wires and tubes that wound out of his arm.

France opened his eyes and glanced at it, tracing each tube and wire back to where it came from. He stared at the tube that carried the heavenly drug which chased away the poison's excruciating effects. France could barely feel the pain of his body, the morphine doing well to keep it at bay. This was the wonderful bliss that he had kept England from after causing him to deal with the agony in the first place. France gulped down air as he willed his right arm to move across his body. He didn't deserve the relief. He deserved the pain, the agony. His life was worth nothing if it was not filled with anguish.

He felt his trembling, numb fingers wrap around the clear tube, jerking it away from his skin. A flash of pain jolted up his arm, but he ignored it as he weakly tossed the implement over the edge of the bed. Red blood slowly seeped from the punctured skin, running off onto the white of the blankets that covered him. His gaze soon returned to the ceiling, returning to his dark thoughts. How could he make up for all the burden he had placed on the others? What could he possibly offer them? He had to do something; he couldn't just let his actions go unexcused. France glanced around the room as the drug haze faded and pain soon crept across his body.

How long had it been since he pulled out the tube? He involuntarily shifted, white agony shooting up and down his spine. His chest constricted, rib cage feeling as it might burst with each breath he took. His throat burned as the oxygen mask tried to force air into his lungs, causing him to pant even more. France could feel his heart beginning to race, listened to it on the heart monitor beside his bed. It was too loud, making his head ache dully. It continued to yell at him, _your fault, your fault_. France nodded to himself, relishing in the agony. Yes, this is what he deserved, all he deserved.

Moments passed and the level of raw torture rose with each passing second. He couldn't remember a time he felt a worse pain. His eyes squeezed shut against it, unable to handle the justified agony. Another wave hit him, a cry choking in his throat. His heart continued to race, faster and harder, beginning to feel as though it would beat out of his chest. A sudden ringing filled his ears, making his steadily growing headache roar in protested. The heart monitor was beating too fast, his breathing was too quick, but all he cared about was that it all hurt so much.

He heard the door slam open, as numerous footsteps rush into his room. Female voices soon joined the alarms, making his head feel as though it was going to split open. They called to him, pleading with him to open his eyes. France ignored them, even if he could have opened eyes he wouldn't have. He prayed that they would leave him alone and let him get what was rightfully his, what he deserved.

***

"Bloody fucking Hell Alfred! Ah–", his words were cut off as a groan replaced it. His arm still hurt, but now all the pain was slowly boiling to anger and it was all being directed towards a young blonde standing by his bedside. He raised an eyebrow, not backing down despite the fury starting to form in England's eyes, and crossed his arms.

"You were being ridiculous! Come on Arthur," America rolled his eyes lightly and continued quickly, " you would have knocked me unconscious and dragged me back to bed if I'd have done something like this." When England had no reply he looked at the IV drip near the bedside. "Now…" he muttered to himself, " about that morphine…"

It must have been a timing only done by the gods because at that moment, the doctor had decided to walk in. England looked at Alfred again lividly and then at the white coated man.

"I warned you Mr. Kirkland, your condition is nothing to take lightly," Dr. Howes chirped, the anger barely veiled by the professionalism in his voice. His pace was swift as he approached England's bedside, quickly switching out the needle of the IV with a sterile needle.

England let out a low and long breath of air. "I'm fine. R-Really." He winced at his own small stutter and then turned to glower at Alfred, whose face continuously switched between a smile and concern.

"Mr. Kirkland." Dr. Howes' stern voice brought Arthur to look back at him. "You either let me do this willingly or I'm afraid I'm going to have to strap you down to keep you from doing further harm to yourself." His eyes were cold and serious and not at all pleased as he moved the needle closer to the bed, placing a firm hand on Arthur's elbow.

America's grin grew, "I'd listen to the doc on this one."

England had to resist rolling his eyes at Alfred, "Thank you Alfred. Whatever would I do without your wondrous opinions?" It sounded like Alfred muttered something along the line of 'you'd cry all day', but he ignored it to look at the doctor evenly. "I'll concede doctor. Do whatever you need."

Dr. Howes nodded gravely, before swiftly, and without warning reinserted the IV and morphine tubes back into the crook of Arthur's arm, placing a piece of tape over them none too gently. He clipped the heart monitor onto his finger without another word, turning his back to his patient to watch the machine. "Do you wish to stay with us for an extended period of time Mr. Kirkland? Because your behavior suggests just that. Your behavior is self destructive and detrimental to your health. If this keeps up I may institutionalize you if it means you'll just do what I say. I know what I'm doing Mr. Kirkland and I'd appreciate it if you would just listen to what I have to say. It is in your best interest if you do."

England shut his mouth and bit his tongue to keep any sharp comments from leaving his mouth. He had learned a long time ago that is was always in poor taste to anger your doctors. He supposed he should have felt bad, maybe even a little chagrined, but he didn't. He was more concerned with Francis' state of health and until that would return to something close to normal, any concern for his own health would simply roll off. He knew, in some part of his mind, that it was probably a bad idea to be straining his body like this– especially since it didn't have to be; however, he really doubted that he would die from something like this. He was the nation of Great Britain and he had gone though worse injuries without any medical aid and he had turned out just fine. So yes, he may delay the healing process a little, but it was worth it if he could either be by Francis' side or help him. He would simply make sure to give the doctor any reason to do anything he had just threatened him with.

Finally he said civilly, "I understand. Thank you."

"I want to be sure you do, Mr. Kirk…" Dr. Howes is interrupted as his beeper suddenly went off. With a sigh he snatched the device off his belt, eyes narrowing as he viewed the tiny screen. "Damn it," he grumbled harshly underneath his breath before taking off towards the door. He disappeared in a flutter of his white lab coat, his running footsteps echoing off the linoleum floor.

A sudden panic seized England's chest. He watched in confusion as the doctor took off from the room and then with sudden horror, towards the direction both he and America had come from. "Wha-Francis? Wait–"

Alfred was looming over him before he could even swing his leg off the bed. "Nope." And with simple word, pushed Arthur back onto the bed with one hand. "You are staying right here. I will sit on you if I have to." He tilted his head to the side cockily, "Don't think I wont either." His hand was still pressed against England's chest and he shook his head when Arthur opened his mouth. " If anything is wrong, Ludwig will tell us. Just chill right now. You passing out wont do anyone any good."

Arthur glowered at his former colony," And if something is wrong Alfred? What then? France is in a worse condition than I." _He's not stable in either body or mind_, he though to himself.

"You can't hurt yourself like this. It's not going to help Francis."

There was a small pause as an unasked question went between them. Could anything?

Arthur looked away and at his newest enemy, the IV. "Well I'm going to see him right now." He struggled to get out of the super nation's grasp, however all it got him was another glare from America.

"I said no way." And then he swung his leg over the bed and straddled Arthur's lower legs with a triumphant smirk.

"Hey! Ow–get off America!"

"No. Nope. No way. No way in Seven Hells." His smirk widened at seeing England's furious face. "You need the morphine," he stated simply.

"So then I'll take it with me." England snapped, trying to unsuccessfully buck or kick Alfred off. Alfred looked amused and it only made Arthur that more livid. Livid enough to want to put as many curses on him and hoped he had to walk backwards for the rest of his life. " Besides, your fat ass is breaking my legs! GET OFF!" he finally yelled. The heart monitor was crying out erratically and quickly.

Alfred gave a small pout. "I am not fat. Now, you sit here quietly and take the medicine quietly. Then we can talk about going to see Francis again."

"You're insane."

America stretched his arms out and looked down lazily. "If it works on Matt, It can work on you. I swear, all of ya'll are crazy stubborn."

"You all. Speak English git. And what works on Matthew?"

"Sitting on him." When Arthur gave him a strange look, Alfred shrugged and rotated his shoulder. "He got hurt playing Hockey once and wouldn't stop to get it fixed. So I sat on him until he agreed to get it treated."

England had to wonder if he was just protective or utterly stupid. "And that's your magic cure all?" he finally asked, "Sitting on people?"

Alfred shrugged again. " If it gets you morphine without the doctor having to sedate you, it's good enough."

"This is ridiculous! What if Francis–"

Alfred cut Arthur off before he could continue his rant yet again, " He was perfectly fine when we saw him last. The doctor does have more patients than you two you know. I bet Francis is sitting in his bed just fine."

***

Dr. Howes sprinted down the hallway, throwing open the door to France's room with a slam. The scene before him was madness, France's heart monitor was beating wildly and erratically. France could hear the doctor shouting out questions. "What happened?"

Once more France felt the hands of the nurse trying to reattach his morphine into his arm, feeling the familiar prick of the needle. Again he moved his arm as best he could, ignoring the pain that any such movement called. He deserved this, why didn't they understand that? The nurse closest to him gave an aggravated and somehow worried sigh.

"He disconnected his morphine line," she reported quickly before setting out to try again before being once again foiled by his movement. "But he won't let us!"

France heard Dr. Howes move closer into the room, his pace quick and stern. "Get the straps," he instructed, taking hold of Francis' arm. He struggled against the new grip, twisting in a way that made his shoulder scream. It put him over the top, a muffled cry escaping his lips from beneath the air mask. "I was afraid we were going to have to do something like this." France felt something wrap around his arms. The slightest brush against his skin made jolts of pain run up and down his arms. "I just didn't know it was going to be with Mr. Bonnefoy."

Arms were now restricted to limited movement, not that France had much fight still left in him. His heart still raced violently and breaths came in short spurts. He was feeling light headed, could almost feel his lips turning blue. He felt another prick as Dr. Howes reset the morphine, and the sting of alcohol as someone tried to stop the trickles of blood running from multiple needle pricks about his arm. France stopped fighting, knowing that he had lost the fight. His body was too tired, and the effects of the morphine were already setting in. Very slowly the pain was being chased away, leaving behind the heavy feeling of guilt.

He opened his eyes when he could, watching as Dr. Howes monitored his heart monitor. France could feel his heart slow and his breathing even out. He could breath properly after a few minutes, though he still panted with shock after the self-imposed attack.

"Should we strap his legs too?" one of the nurses asked. Dr. Howes turned to look at her, his face looking tired.

"No, it seems he has calmed down. I don't think they will be necessary." Howes moved to look back at the monitor, catching open blue eyes looking at him behind a veil of blond hair. France watched as Doctor Howes shook his head with a sigh, "Damn it."

***

It was later that evening that England was able to (well not escape because he could go wherever the hell he wanted without America's permission thank you very much) evade his newly found babysitter. He had gone out to grab food for himself and that to Arthur's opinion had been the best opportunity. After making sure that the robe given to him by Alfred a day earlier was tied securely around his waist and hand firmly around the IV stand, Arthur had walked slowly down the corridors to Francis' room. However, he really didn't feel like facing the doctor's wrath at the moment, so he was very careful to avoid any doctors in general. Though he was loath to admit it, the IV stand was making an excellent support and he was able to go though the halls without holding onto the walls or having to stop. Nearing France's room, he wasn't surprised to see the waiting room Germany and Italy had occupied was now empty.

Standing outside Francis' door, he hesitated and then knocked quietly. Either there had been no response or the answer had been too quiet, so after a moment, Arthur let himself into the room. He could see the familiar figure of France on the other side of the room and gave a sigh. "Hey Francis, I heard…" He paused after taking a few steps towards the man's bedside, noticing something strange. After a pause, he realized what exactly it was.

"What the hell is this?" he said as he stared at the restraints around Francis' arms with confusion and rage and turned to the still open door. Noticing a nurse walking by, he stormed over to the door and called her over. "Why on earth is he being restrained?" He didn't bother to mask his irk.

The nurse looked at him up and down, a kind and apologetic smile on her face. "Mr. Bonnefoy pulled out his morphine line earlier today and he refused to let us reattach it. Dr. Howes restrained him for his own protection"

Arthur quelled in rage for a quiet moment but the words that soon came were jerky with whirling thoughts. "Wh-What? Why on earth…Francis!" he turned smoldering green eyes onto his friend. "Why?"

Francis looked away and buried his unmasked face into the pillow. He couldn't take looking at England's hurt and angry eyes. _Why can't he just leave me alone?_ France thought weakly, eyes tearing.

England couldn't believe that he could be doing this to himself, but thoughts of the suicide attempt flew threw his mind and he looked away from Francis. Rather, he clenched his jaw and tilted his head slightly as he tried to calm himself. Finally he looked into the nurse's concerned eyes. "Thank you." He finally muttered, "I had no idea." His steely gaze fell back onto Francis.

When the nurse had left with a small smile, Arthur turned fully to take a deep soul searching look at the other nation. He wanted to yell at him. To yell and rage and cry out '_what are you doing_', but he knew that he couldn't act like that. Not when the man in front of him was so broken. Arthur wondered grimly in he had any idea to what extent. He wanted to help him, and knowing that the Frenchman was blaming himself– god only knew why–really hurt him. It was an icy cold pain deep in his gut to know that Francis would rather hurt himself more than accept any help, or even just simply get better. And then, with all the emotions of fear–for his friend's life, rage–for not accepting help and hurting himself more, and hurt–that there was nothing he could do, all filled his body until he hummed with emotion. He dragged himself over to Francis' bedside again and gave a bone weary sigh. "Good God man." He ran his less bandaged hand though his hair and then sat down in the chair near the bed, rolling the IV stand with him. He sat there in silence, no longer sure what to do or say anymore.

France clenched his hands in the sheets, unable to stand the pity and hurt in England's voice. "I...I-I deserve it," he whispered, disappointed that no pain came to distract him from his guilt.

Arthur gave a brief glance at Francis and then looked at his bawled hands in the sheets. His own bandaged hands stayed limply in his lap. "Hush." He finally muttered, "Isn't all this enough?" Arthur thought so and his throat constricted slightly. "Do you really have to place yourself into Hell's hands?" He dipped his head and his better hand slid from his forehead down to his chin where it rested. He gave a groan of frustration and leaned back into the chair, hand now curled below his chin.

Francis shook his head briefly, tears starting to brim in his eyes. He had no right to cry! He deserved every bit of this! "N-n-no!" he whispered hoarsely, throat dry from the air mask. "I deserve...worse. M-much w-worse." The air was oddly thick and cold; the sheets seemed too thin to do any good. He wanted to pull them tighter around himself, and he shifted to do so but found his hands restrained.

Arthur looked up sharply at the words, disbelief in his eyes. He worked his jaw and then let out a huff. "You're insane. Why do you say that?" he nearly began spluttering again as he tried to understand. He pulled his hand against his brow and looked at the linoleum floor. "You nearly died and you think you need a worse punishment?" His voice raised in anger near the end. There was a moment's pause and he briefly covered his eyes. "I can't imagine."

"It's God's p-punishment...all o-of this...f-f-or all I-I've h-hurt ev-veryone..." Francis muttered, still refusing to look at England. The guilt was too much to bear, nearly making him feel as though he was going to be sick.

England's hand was still covering his eyes and he nearly laughed. It was like some cruel and wicked joke. "God?" He pulled his hand away to look at Francis, "You think God would do this to you? And who the hell have you hurt?" Arthur looked at his hands and shuddered as he kept a small laugh internally. "For the sake of God, if _you_ managed to hurt anyone to deserve this," he paused and looked at the ceiling, "then I probably deserve to be struck down by a lightning bolt, or stricken with leukemia." He really doubted that anything Francis did deserved this. Arthur however, he had his own dark past to worry about.

France cursed his over active mind, as it brought images of a broken England. His hands squeezed the sheets even more tightly. He felt like he couldn't breath, guilt wrapping around his lungs and crushing them. Francis took a deep breath any more. "I h-h-h-hurt y-you _An-n-gle-te-e-erre_...I d-des-serve ev-v-verything." Why was he so weak?

Wanting to throw his hands into the air, Arthur settled for glaring at the ceiling. "You dolt, we went over this before. Apparently English isn't sticking in your head right now." He stopped to form the next words in his mouth. "_Ce n'est pas votre faute_." He hoped his rusty French would convey what he wanted.

France turned to look at him then, the words acting like a trigger, letting loose everything he had been turning over in his head for days. "_C'est mon défaut. Tout est mon défaut. J'ai blessé chacun, causé chacun la douleur_." The words came out easier than he had expected, though he was now left panting and gasping for air. It was starting to hurt, the feeling as though he was drowning, the constant gasping leaving his ribcage aching.

A snap went off though England's body and he trembled as the emotions let go. "That's enough." He said quietly, too calmly. His hands fell limply into his lap again and he felt the dead icy feeling in his stomach once more. _Why_, he wondered and unable to look at Francis_, why do you do blame yourself so much_? "You haven't harmed anyone, only yourself," he said softly. "You're letting yourself wallow in pain and…" he rubbed his cauterized wrist as he admitted even softer, "I can't do anything to help, can I?"

Francis looked at England, really looked at him. He looked pale but better than he had yesterday and for that he thanked God. He looked impossibly small in the hospital gown and robe, clinging to the metal stand for dear life. All he had put England through, and he still was so willing to help him. France started shaking, disbelief and confusion racing through his body. "You a-am," Francis gasped for air, "a-am-aze m-me Arth..._Angle-terre_."

"W-What?" Arthur looked at Francis again, this time surprised and confused.

Francis' eyes were watering, gasping for air. "Y-you...c-care s-so mu-ch bu-t I d-d-don't kn-n-now h-how you c-can e-sp-ecia-lly...wi-th..._m-m-moi_."

Silence filled the room, only disrupted by the beeps of the monitors and the soft gasps from Francis. Arthur contemplated him for a moment and stood up, "You can't breath properly can you? Let me help you." He reached over the bedside to the discarded mask. He realized it was close enough that Francis should have been able to put it on had he not been restrained. He lifted it to Francis' face and helped maneuver the strap gently behind his hair. Arthur pulled away when he thought it was on properly and went to sit back down. Glowering at the IV when his back was turned to Francis, he mouthed a curse word at it since it had tugged on his arm and it was now slowly becoming red from the sore skin. He sat back down in the chair and looked back to Francis.

Francis gasped in breath after breath of oxygen, the mask helping to chase the drowning feeling away. He coughed slightly, throat dry and sore, resting against the bed as he tried to catch his breath. Moments passed in silence before he turned to look Arthur, that same disbelieving look in his eyes.

Arthur however was looking at the floor again grumbling, "Especially with you….How could you say something like that?" His hand covered his eyes and was silent. "I…" he started, but cut himself off quickly. His thoughts raged and clashed in his mind and finally he pulled his hand away and looked at Francis' face. "What would you do if our roles were reversed? If I was lying there rather than you?"

Blue eyes locked onto the white sheets of his bed, not warm enough to bite off the chill his body was feeling. France's eyes then moved to the wall soon after, momentarily staring at the pale beige straps keeping his hands at bay. His eyes looked at everything except England, trying his hardest not to answer. France knew he would never leave England's side, waiting on him hand and foot, till he was better and then maybe a little after that.

England watched as he avoided his gaze and gave the smallest of smiles. "You wouldn't abandon me." He folded his arms gently across his stomach, wary of the IV and hurt arm. "And I won't abandon you."

France closed his eyes at the confession, sighing as best as he could, body still shaking slightly.

"Are you alright?" Arthur asked.

Francis moved to nod his head but stopped short. England was here, even with all he had put him through, he was still here. He deserved something, didn't he? France took a deep breath before opening his eyes slowly and turning to look at the man by his bedside. Tears started biting at his eyes, threatening to over flow. "_N-non. Non, j-je ne s-s-uis pas_." Even in his own language, something he had never had difficulty expressing anything in before, it was hard. Probably the hardest thing he had ever had to admit.

Arthur stared at Francis. He was stunned. He had hoped for some sort of admittance that he wasn't okay, but he had never dreamed that it would happen. He looked into Francis' pained blue eyes, once again happy that he actually had the chance to see them again, rather than from memory as he stood in front of a grave. "Can you tell me?" he asked slowly.

"_Je ne p-peux pa-as, p-as en-c-core_," France muttered softly, between quivering breaths. It was becoming difficult again, and he wasn't sure if England could hear him over the hissing of the air mask. He tried to blink back the water flooding his eyes, only allowing one tear to slide down his face. France tilted his head trying to hide it, only succeeding in making hair fall into his face.

Arthur nodded, he could understand. He noticed Francis' hair fall into his eves and reached out to brush it away. A clumsy response in French made it past his lips softly as he tucked the golden hair behind Francis' ear. "_J__e vais attendre jusqu'a ce que vous pouves ensuite_." He murmured. And he would wait, he would wait until Francis had enough strength or trust to tell him no matter how long.

France slightly leaned into the touch, the warmth seeped into his skin from beneath the bandages. England was trying so hard, and it didn't seem like he was going anywhere. He closed his eyes as he just let the moment just happen, only succeeding in letting a few more tears fall. He was too exhausted to truly cry, unsure if he really could with how much he had done so in the past few days. He found himself, yet again, physically and emotionally drained, but Arthur was there. France's breathing hitched as he tried to take a deep breath, air only catching in his dry throat. He coughed weakly, trying to clear it, his breathing becoming irregular once more.

Arthur looked at Francis in concern, not sure how to take the new tears. He listened to Francis' breathing and realized that it was no longer even. He wanted to stay near, but at the same time he didn't want to be the cause of exhaustion. "Do you need to rest?" he asked softly, "Should I go?"

Blue eyes turned to look at green counterparts, swarming with different emotions dulled by medication. France tried another attempt to take a deep breath, hoping he could make his voice a little steadier. "I-if y-y-you li-ke," he was able to rasp, the words hurting his throat. He liked having England here, close to him, but he didn't want to hold him here, lest it cause him any pain. _No, I can't let what happened last time happen again_, he thought gloomily. He had no right to ask him to stay.

"Right then." Arthur murmured, but made no move to get up or leave. Rather, he kept his hand soothingly stroking in the golden hair, as though he were trying to comfort a small child. He stared off into space and let the silence settle between them. It wasn't uncomfortable, but it seemed both parties had run out of words to say. Arthur thought about Francis' state of health and America's words began to slowly drift into his thoughts. He had to admit, what he had to say had made sense at the time. Even when the doctors would say that Francis' would be fine to leave the hospital, he wouldn't be fine to live on his own. He couldn't go back to living in seclusion, not when it was so apparent that there were too many shattered pieces to fix. With each new thought concreting the last, Arthur finally gained enough courage to finally start to ask. "Erm…" he began, and looked away. _Nice way to start a conversation_, he thought to himself, _you sound like Alfred_. He let the silence flutter around before continuing once again.

"France…you don't have to say anything to this," he started, and as he paused he began to fidget in his seat, "but, well…" he folded his legs across his ankles and looked at the floor. When Francis didn't make a sound he continued, nervousness slowly creeping into his stomach. "America and I were talking before and we both thought that maybe, when you can return home I mean…" he paused again. Out of the nervous fluttering in his body, Arthur became flustered and started rushing his speech. "…It would be more beneficial for both parties if you were to take residence along side me until you were of a more fit disposition?" If his hands weren't swathed in bandages, he knew his palms would have started to become slick.

France looked at him, his eyes screaming with confusion, head tilting slightly in wonder. He wasn't sure he had heard what England said correctly, mind too exhausted to keep up. His brow furrowed slightly as he tried to make sense of everything, everything that seemed so much easier only weeks before.

Becoming more flustered at the lack of response, his words came out more mangled and quick, " Unless of course you would rather we didn't take action along that route. I of course was offering with your current disposition in mind and though I am more partial to it due to…" he broke off and sunk his head into his hand in embarrassment. "Ah…Well. Right." He finally finished.

France blinked slowly as he watched the nation grasp for words that he still couldn't comprehend the meanings of. "_An-gle-ter-re_...I d-don-n't un-der..." His feeble words were cut off as his chest seized, convulsing with coughs which shook his thin frame. He was choking, or drowning, either one could describe what was happening as he gasped for air, trying to inflate his lungs with oxygen. France tried frantically to sit up, hoping it would encourage air to go down his throat, but he was limited from where his arms were still strapped to the railings and his muscles to weak to do it on his own.

Arthur panicked and raised his own hands, "Ah! Don't just relax!" he ordered. He waited until Francis stopped coughing and he wrung his hands nervously as painstakingly slow, his breathing began to return to normal. "Ah, fuck." He muttered and waited until France's body was no longer tense. Suddenly, as though the words were vomited out of his mouth, he asked his question. "," He said rapidly.

France's damp eyes went wide as he turned to look at Arthur. His breathing hitched before he stopped breathing all together. Millions of thoughts ran through his head so fast he couldn't comprehend all of them. Was England serious? No, there was no way he could be. Why would he want him at his house? His vision began to spin as he finally remembered to breath, sucking in a gulp of air.

Arthur was staring at the floor again, face red in mortification. He couldn't even look at Francis' bed, let alone his face. Right now he was contemplating of maybe moving into his basement and never coming out. He could always do Internet chats right? No need to ever show his face again. Though he was mortified, he didn't move away from the bedside as a thick, hazy silence filled the room. This time, it was awkward and Arthur found himself fidgeting.

Once more, France tried to will his mouth to move, for words to come out, but three times they had been drowned out by the hissing of the mask. He was too tired, too feeble and in too much pain to hold a decent conversation. Any other time he might have kicked himself, but now he contemplated how it was fitting of him. He didn't want to put England through the trouble, didn't think he was worth of any of it. France tried once more, his voice holding just barely enough. "I-I'd b-be a b-b-burden," he said gloomily, head drooping and turning away from the green-eyed man beside him.

Arthur turned his head so quickly he thought for a moment he had given himself whiplash. "What? No, you wouldn't."

He continued to look down at the bed, France found himself once again staring at the restraints wrapped around his wrist. He nodded his head slowly. Was England not looking at him? France could just picture what he looked like, hooked up to different machines while having to be strapped to a bed, all the while air being pumped into his lungs so he wouldn't suffocate. He was more trouble than England should have to deal with. Again, he gave England another sad nod.

England's brows furrowed together, "Really, you wouldn't." He soon added as an afterthought, "Unless you plan on burning down my house on purpose, then that's another story." When he noticed his humor failed he cleared his throat and darted his eyes away, "You really wouldn't be any sort of bother."

Why was England pushing this so much? Couldn't he see that he was trying to save him? France furrowed his brow as he thought about all the things he had overheard the doctor talking about to one of the nurses. "D-doc-ct-tor sa-aid..." The words stopped there. He couldn't say them, couldn't bring himself too.

Like a satin veil over his eyes, fear blurred Arthur's sight for a moment and it took a few seconds to form the words. "He said what?"

Why was thinking so hard! France's eyes narrowed as he tried to concentrate, trying to push the haze of pain and exhaustion away. "H-he sa-id...I-i w-won't...be ab-le t-to d-o m-muc-ch."

Relief swelled though his body and Arthur let out a sigh. Thoughts of proclamations of 'dying', 'paralyzed' and 'hospice' had run though his mind, but to hear the confirmation of something he already knew was something he could accept. Honestly, what did he think he was asking him to do? Be his house maid? Of course he knew he wouldn't be able to do much of anything, that's why he was asking. "I already knew that." He informed Francis. " Look, I wouldn't be asking if I didn't want to have you over." He paused, thinking once again just exactly what this situation meant and cleared his throat. "You aren't a burden if I want you to be there."

France shook his head. Maybe England wasn't understanding him. "N-no," he muttered. "h-he sai-d...w-wo-n't b-be ab-ble t-to d-do mu-ch f-for m-myse-lf." He shook his head again, with the smallest amount of self pity that he could allow. "M-mov-ing wi-will be di-iff-i-cu-lt."

Arthur placed his hand on Francis', "I know."

France couldn't help but look at England when he touched his hand. He found himself gazing into those green eyes before he had enough sense to rip them away. They held such a sincerity, something that he had never seen before. Tears started biting at his eyes for the hundredth time since this all started. "T-too mu-ch t-t-tro-ble."

Arthur's tone became more gentle at the sight of fresh tears, "Honestly, I can't say this any clearer Francis." He paused and tilted his head. "And I'm not saying it in French. I want you to stay with me so I can help you." He soon added softly, "Please?"

France shut his eyes tightly, trying with all his might to chase the tears away. Slowly, hesitantly, and cautiously he nodded his head. He would give England that much. He still thought this was a bad idea, still confused why England was pushing it so hard. But it would hurt too much to say no to him.

Upon seeing the nod, England lowered his head and let out a breath. It cleansed him of the nervous fluttering and he felt more at ease even though his cheeks seemed to be pooling with red heat. "Thank you," he whispered and gave a soft gentle grasp to Francis' hand, trying to express his gratefulness with his body rather than words.

Cautiously, France wrapped his fingers around England's hand, locking tightly around them. He eyes were still closed, but the tears suddenly stopped creeping down his cheeks

* * *

It had been a few weeks since Arthur had asked Francis to stay with him until he regained his full strength and he was currently standing in front of Francis' hospital room. He tugged on the cuffs of his gloves, self-conscious of the white fabric whenever he visited the Frenchman. He stood outside for a moment, out of the way of the sliver of glass in the door. He had been released within the week, however he still took to favoring the uninjured hand generally. Part of his wrist had gone numb from the cauterization, but the pain would still flare up if he wasn't careful. He shifted his weight slightly, twisted his worn briefcase in his left hand thoughtfully and took a slow breath to prepare himself. Francis had just undergone a surgery and this would be his first time seeing him since the procedure. They had to remove the deadened skin destroyed from the caustic poison that had entered his shoulder and it had to be stitched back together. He winced at the thought and rested his hand on the doorknob, allowing his frame to fill the window before entering the room.

It wasn't as sterile as the ICU, nor as bereft of color or warmth. The walls were painted a soft yellow and there were a few prints of impressionist artworks framed on the wall. Arthur looked to where Francis lay; glad to see he no longer looked brittle and grey. Life seemed to have begun to seep into him again, even though his eyes were dulled with pain, both physical and emotional. He smiled at the golden haired man and shut the door. A white stuffed bear near his bedside caught Arthur's attention and he looked at it for a moment as he walked closer. His eyes flipped back to Francis as he heard the rasping of sheets. "Hello."

France watched England walk into the room, trying to keep his eyes off the gloves that covered the man's hands whenever he came for a visit. "_Bon_..." he started but quickly stopped. "Hello...Arth..." Again he stopped. England's visits still confused him. He didn't feel worthy of them, still, he tried to smile when ever he visited. If it put the nation at ease then he would do it. "Hello_, Angleterre_."

Arthur took a swift catalogue of Francis' full appearance, looking to make sure he was relatively okay. He was still pale, but his eyes were less sunken and dead looking. They held a bright awareness that those few first days had been murky from the haze of medication. His hair was beginning to have a healthier shine to it and overall he looked less on edge. He was currently propped up by the bed and a few pillows were behind his wounded left shoulder. His arm rested in a sling. The hesitance in addressing him hadn't perturbed him nearly as much as it should have since he always seemed to hesitate between French and English around him. Arthur gave a faint smile and pulled on the gloves again out of habit as he looked again at the white bear. " I see Matthew came by?" It was more of a statement than a question.

"Yes," France replied, nodding in agreement. He turned to gaze at the stuffed bear, a small smile pulling at his lips. "It was good to see him again. He apologized for not coming sooner," he muttered before adding quickly, "Not that he had to come." He turned to look back at England. His skin had its healthy glow back, though the circles were still under his eyes but that was to be expected. France's eyes traced across his business clothes, unwillingly locking onto the gloves again.

Arthur gave a small snort. "Of course he came, he's a proper gentleman." He walked further into the room until he was near the foot of Francis' bed. "Are you physically okay though? Is your body feeling better?" Ever since the day Francis had admitted that he was not okay, Arthur made the distinction between asking about how he was, and how he really was on a deeper level. Having come closer, he could notice the traces of fatigue in Francis' face. A guilt began to bubble in his chest and he soon found himself apologizing. "I'm sorry I couldn't get here sooner though."

France attempted to wave off the words, but his right hand tugged at the newly placed iv's. He scowled at them momentarily before turning to look back at England. "It's alright _Angleterre_. I understand." He shifted slightly, taking care not to jostle his shoulder and send raw pain from the wound. The venom was nearly gone from his system, but the damage had been done. It was going to take a while, and different medication to repair what had been lost.

Arthur gave a small frown thinking; _No, I should have been here sooner_. However he reached into the pocket of his briefcase and pulled out a blue folder. "I brought a copy of the notes from the meeting" he said, offering the papers.

"I appreciate it," Francis said, reaching his hand out for the papers. "Thank you." Once again, the IV's held his hand back, pulling at the tape and skin sharply. France turned his face down at the offending instrument, his brow folding as he glared down at it.

"Of course." Arthur said moving closer to Francis nonchalantly, " You never answered my question though."

France looked up at him, a flash of confusion crossed his face before he glanced back at the tubes. "What question?" He tried shifting his arm to try and persuade the IV's to give him more maneuverability.

Arthur gave an inaudible sigh. "Are you feeling better?" he asked again. He moved near Francis and stuck out the papers until he could easily grasp the folder without tugging on the IV, something he knew from experience was quite frustrating. "Here, let me help you with that."

He nodded a thanks with a sort of sorrow and shame. France slowly took the papers from England and placed them in his, not even glancing at them. "I'm fine," he replied, absent mindedly grasping his left arm gently. "Sore is all."

Arthur tilted his head slightly and frowned faintly after noticing the sad tinge to the nod, "Are you alright?' he asked after a hesitation, looking to where Francis was grasping his arm.

France quickly took his right hand away, giving a stiff nod. "Fine." His blue eyes turned to look up at England, trying to give him a small smile, but his eyes caught the clock hanging on the wall behind him. Immediately his face fell in a frown, color slightly draining from his face.

Arthur noticed the change in pallor and his frown deepened. "Is something wrong?"

He emitted a sorrowful sigh, hands collapsing in his lap and eyes locking on the bed sheets. His body started shaking, as the clock steadily ticked away. "The...nurse will be here shortly," he muttered, flinching as the thoughts of events soon to come eased into his mind. France tried to push them away with a small shake of his head.

"Oh." Arthur said. He looked at the clock, though it meant nothing to him and then back to Francis. He thought in silence for a moment and then clasped his hands behind his back, "Would you rather I left then?"

The door opened suddenly, revealing a stunned looking nurse holding a tray with new bandages and other instruments on them. "Oh sorry, I hope I'm not interrupting something," she said cheerfully, shooting them both an apologetic smile. She then moved to France's bedside, placing the tray on a stand close by and began pulling on a pair of blue latex gloves.

With a small shuffle in apprehension, Arthur gave a questioning look with his green eyes from Francis' face to the nurse on the opposite side of the bed and then back to his friend, "I'll take my leave then?"

N-no..." France chirped quickly and quietly. He glanced up at the nation, blue eyes shining with a dully hidden fear. "Will you...will you stay," he pleaded, head bowing and he shifted stiffly before adding. "P-please."

A beat hadn't even passed before Arthur gave his answer, "Sure." He looked at the nurse again to reaffirm that he would not be in her way.

How are you feeling Mr. Kirkland?" the nurse asked when she was done laying out everything she had and moved to turn back to face France. Her elbow bumped into a vase holding yellow flowers on the bedside table. "Whoops," she muttered, glancing at it nervously before turning back to the men when it settled. She helped France sit up and ease himself out of his sling.

"Perfectly well, thank you" he said with a brilliant simile to the nurse. He looked at the vase in confusion after a moment. "Who sent those?" he asked looking to Francis.

"I don't know," France whispered, eyes still locked onto the sheets, looking rather nervous and pale as the nurse rearranged the pillows behind him. "They were here when I woke up after surgery."

The nurse paused and glanced back at the flowers, eyes narrowing in thought before turning back to them with a smile. Those are from Ms. Arlovskaya. She sent them yesterday." She shot a look at England, giving him a quick once over. "I'm glad to hear you're feel better."

Arthur gave a nod but looked at the bright yellow flowers again. There was something nagging at the back of his mind when he stared at them. What sort of flowers were they again? England curled his hand under his chin as he thought for a moment. Maybe it was the meaning that was bothering him? The Language of Flowers had been all the craze back in the Victorian era, but it had fallen out of style so he had to rack his brain to not only remember the flower, but it's meaning.

And then it hit him.

The reason it was bothering him was not because of the meaning, which wasn't exactly kind, but the flower itself. They were yellow carnations. Carnations–the flowers given out at funerals in France. They were a symbol of death and Arthur could feel himself blanche. He gave Francis a quick look, having no doubt that the Frenchman had picked up the hidden and more malicious meaning. He decided to remove them and reached over the bed.

As he reached across the bed and Francis' body, his sleeve pulled back slightly showing the bandages still encircling his arm. He snatched the vase quickly and pulled it back towards him as he moved away from the bed. He walked over to the corner of the room and dumped the flowers, vase and all, into the trash.

France's eyes locked onto the white fabric, eyes wide and sad. He hadn't missed the meaning when he woke up, but he had merely passed it off as an accident or a misunderstanding. Either way, they had almost seemed fitting. Seeing how he deserved nothing less. Still his eyes were trained on England's arm and hands, even as he moved around the room.

Arthur dusted his hands off lightly, as though he had touched something filthy. He would have to have a word with Belarus…again. He turned back to see Francis looking at him and crooked his brow in a silent question. He put his injured hand into his pocket, suddenly more conscious of it and began to walk over to France's bedside again.

France continued to stare, even as the limb was tucked away into the pocket. He suddenly felt sick to his stomach, eyes suddenly starting to sting.

The nurse had watched everything with a dazed look. She glanced between the two men before locking her eyes with England as he approached the bed. "Um...feel free to just take a seat in that chair right there." She looked down at France, a flash of panic crossing her eyes before looking back up at England. "F-feel free to hold his hand if you like."

"Ah, " Arthur mumbled, looking at Francis in concern, "thank you." There was some emotion in the Frenchman's eyes that Arthur couldn't identify and he took a seat in the chair near the bed. He put his hand on the bed near Francis', unsure of if he wanted to hold hands. He left the option open to Francis however and watched the nurse's movements. "What exactly is it that you are you doing?"

The nurse's hands moved back to France, carefully undoing his top and easing it to the side, revealing bandages wrapped and round around the France's left shoulder. "Well, we need to change the dressing so it won't become infected and also to check and make sure the wound is draining correctly." She started humming a soft, soothing lullaby as she worked, a smile masking a tired face.

"I see."

"Yes," she said, before her face taking on a sad smile. "Well, unfortunately the area is still pretty tender, and with the effects of the poison," she paused glancing down remorsefully at the back of France's head. "It will be extremely painful." She gently coaxed France to lie on his right side, watching pitifully as her patient flinched at the movement and wrapped his right hand around the railing tightly.

Arthur could feel his stomach warp in concern and looked to Francis fretfully, he finally slid his fingers between his and gave a comforting tug. Wishing he could transfer his own strength to the nation lying in the bed beside him, he braced his shoulders for what he knew would be a painful ordeal for his friend.

France wrapped his hand around England's, giving him a small squeeze. He turned into the pillow, trying to breath steadily and calmly as he felt the nurse begin to unravel his bandages. He winced for the first time as she pulled, his shoulder aching and stinging as she moved.

Arthur's breath hitched when he watched France's face contort slightly in a wince. His mind whirled franticly and he tried to think of something to distract Francis' mind from the pain. A memory from centuries ago glowed in his mind and he soon found himself speaking of it. He rubbed his thumb across Francis' hand, " Do you remember that time you cut my hair?" he asked slowly.

France opened his eyes to look up at England, the image of a younger, mop haired Arthur looking up at him caused a small smile to cross his lips. For moment, he was transported to the past, when everything was simpler and he was actually useful to the world.

"_Oui_, I-i remember," he admitted finally, before he let out a soft grunt as the bandages were wound away.

Arthur had felt warmer seeing the smile on France's lips and had let a small one grace his own before it fell seeing Francis in pain again. The memory stirred and he thought about it again. He had let his hair grow out because it had been fashionable at the time and, well he wouldn't admit it aloud, he liked long hair.

"I never did get why you never told me you had to do more than just let your hair grow to have longer hair." He grumbled, remembering the tangles of hair, awful split hairs and the random wisps that had no idea how to stay down. "I looked like a rabbit." He finally admitted.

Francis smirked at the comment, remembering the time fondly. "I thought it fit you, _mon lapin_." He let out a soft chuckle before hissing and cringing as the nurse pulled off the last bandage, leaving only the gauze pad to be removed. The hand he had gripping the railing was going white knuckled as he clenched it in pain.

Arthur watched worriedly and held France's hand tighter, he continued with the conversation praying it was distracting him even just slightly. "You thought I looked better as a rabbit? What a compliment." A distracted smile filled his lips as he watched over Francis.

"Ok, Try and bear with me Mr. Bonnefoy," the nurse chimed in, placing the soiled bandages off to the side.

France nodded slightly, turning eagerly back to England and his story. "I-it was...cute," he gasped out, his breathing coming out in pants as the nurse took hold of one of the corners of the gaze pad. Pain radiated from the spot, making every muscle in his body tense.

"Alright Mr. Bonnefoy, here comes the worst part. I'll try to do this quickly." She cooed softly, placing a calm hand on his shoulder.

Carefully, she started peeling off the pad, grimacing as it pulled at the healing skin. Blood had dried, connecting the gauze to the red and raw wound.

France's body jolted rigid, teeth clenching tightly together, biting back a grunt. His blue eyes clenched tightly, eyes watering to the point of rolling down his cheeks. It felt as though she was ripping the skin right off him. He choked back a cry, holding his breath. He curled in on himself as much as he could, giving England's hand a squeeze. It hurt so bad, worse than he had ever felt before. Agony was radiating through his body, making him tremble against the bed.

The grip was strong enough now that it was starting to hurt Arthur's hand, but he didn't say a word–rather, he kept his hand clamped on. He wished he could do something to help rather than just be there for support. "It's okay, it'll be over soon." He said softly. He continued the conversation and looked into Francis' eyes when he would allow him. "I'm glad you cut it though. No one would have taken a rabbit seriously when I was younger."

Peaking an eye open, he gazed at England, a silent barely hidden plead shining in his eyes. "Y-you as-ked m-me t-too…AHHH, _m-mon Dieu_," France's shrieked trying to bury his head into the pillow. Tears were streaking down his face now, a cold sweat breaking out over his skin as he withered underneath the sheets.

Francis' pain unearthed another memory as England thought franticly what to do, and England faintly thought of the time he had comforted Alfred after he had broken his leg when the colony had been very young. The familiar motions of comforting seemed to have filled his body before his brain recognized them, for without realizing it he had started to stroke Francis' hair and face gently. Soothing noises soon crooned from his throat and the sudden urge to envelope him into his arms stole into him. "It'll be okay," he promised.

The smell of alcohol burned at France's noses moments before the burning liquid brushed against his skin. Fire erupted from his shoulder, escaping from his mouth in a cry. He bit it back as best he could, before it escaped again in a yelp as she brushed harshly against still angry stitches. He leaned into England's touch, pleading it would distract him from what was happening. Profanities echoed in his head, but just not enough to block out the tiny voice in the back of his head that constantly told him that he deserved this. That he deserved ten times worse. His right hand gave the railing another squeeze, the veins and tendons popping out of his transparent skin. The IV began pulling away, against the strain of the tightly clamped muscles, however no more than a distant ache.

England watched as France writhed, horror clutched tightly in his throat and he finally leaned in, giving an odd embrace and rested his cheek against the Frenchman's head. He noticed the taunt IV line and with his free hand, gently tugged at the hand Francis had encircled around the railing. He realized as he glanced at the white knuckled hand that he was grasping the railing tighter than he was with Arthur's hand. He pulled again softly and then went back to stroking Francis' hair, face, and arm; all in the seemingly futile attempt to soothe him from his pain. "I never did change that haircut," he muttered softly.

France gave free with his right hand, opting to clutch white sheets instead. Slowly the stinging started to fade, but his muscles remained taunt to the point where they seized painfully. He drew his mind to England, trying to focus most of his energy on him. He could feel the nation's warmth sinking into him, smelled his comforting scent. "_O-oui_," he whispered through clenched teeth. He could feel the nurse beginning to wind new bandages around his shoulder, making no complaint at the other body.

"You did great, Mr. Bonnefoy," she cooed, moving as cautiously and gently as possible. "Just great." She quickly secured it, collecting her things rather than disturb the heart-warming scene on the bed. France's was still panting with quivering breaths, though England's presence seemed to be bringing him out of it.

Arthur watched the nurse move out of the corner of his eye, he was still making soft soothing noises and had moved to rubbing France's arm gently. Arthur knew he probably should be getting embarrassed being seen like this, but seeing France in pain just sent any damn out the window. "Are you alright?" he asked.

Francis shook his head without any thought, curling further into himself. "I-it h-h-hurts," he moaned out, another tear rolling down his cheek. Suddenly France didn't care any longer, he couldn't stay tough in front of England anymore. Everything just hurt too much, he was too tired. Besides, though he might not admit it, not even to himself, he trusted England.

Arthur turned his head to look at the nurse as he felt his shirt slowly become damp. Francis' hair scratched at his cheek and Arthur's absinthe eyes burned in question. Suddenly, Francis' words stuck a cord and he blinked slowly realizing that Francis had said he was in pain. Aloud. And with Arthur there to boot. Arthur pressed his lips to Francis' head and whispered 'thank you' softly, his breath tossing a few strands of the golden hair awry. He pulled away far enough to look into France's reddened eyes, "Is there anything I can do?"

France shook his head, once more trying to turn into the pillow, as if it could offer some sort of relief from the pain. "T-thank you, Arth..._Angleterre_," he whispered. He was, he really was. It was so much worse the last time he went through this torture and he was glad, if not feeling more than slightly guilty, that England was there with him. His warmth, his smile, his scent, it all almost made everything bearable. France tried to relax his hands, but they stayed clamped tightly, his left hand not wanting to let England go.

Arthur's eyes flickered back and forth as he tried to discern exactly the state Francis was in because, even before all this had happened, Francis had simply always been untruthful about his state of health. Now he looked carefully to see if he could gauge the pain he was in. He gave Francis a doubtful look and turned to look at the nurse again, "Will he be able to leave soon?"

The nurse looked back at him with a smile, pulling off soiled gloves after preparing everything else for disposal. "If he continues to heal properly, the doctor believes he'll be able to leave sometime this weekend," she said, a small hint of doubt in her voice as she glanced down at the pained man. Her face softened almost instantly, seeing how he clutched tightly to the green eyed man. "He's been very strong this far," she said thoughtfully.

Arthur sighed and gave the woman a smile, "That's good to hear." He paused and fingered a lock of hair away from Francis' damp face "Do you think he will be able to though?" he asked.

Again she smiled sweetly, looking at them both with kind eyes. "I believe so," she stated, her mind drifting to all the people she had seen come to see Francis since his stay. "With all the support he has, I think he will." She nodded, almost to herself. "He just needs to remain strong."

Arthur closed his eyes. "Good," he breathed, his fingers lacing around Francis' again.

France's breathing was slowly evening out, the pain gradually fading from his face. He thanked God it was over, again and again, and also thanked him that England was there with him. Soon the angry shoulder dulled to a distant throbbing ache, something that he could deal with.

"Are you ready to sit up, Mr. Bonnefoy?" the nurse asked sweetly, hands already on him.

Hesitantly, France nodded, reluctantly allowing himself to be coaxed away from England and back into his sitting position. He missed the warmth instantly, though pleasantly surprised when England moved to hold his right hand when the nurse began to ease his left arm back into the sling. France could feel her position the pillows behind his back, before he was allowed to collapse against them, exhausted and spent.

The nurse watched it all as she disposed of the sullied bandages and gloves. Collecting all her other instruments, she stacked them on the tray. "I'll just leave you two alone then," she muttered, before ducking out the door, making it shut slowly with a soft click

Arthur had watched as the nurse left soon after making sure everything was in order. His gaze found itself on Francis once again who looked exhausted and seemingly more delicate in Arthur's mind. Seconds ticked by from the clock and the silence blanketed itself though the room. Pulling his injured hand out of Francis' line of sight, Arthur waited in the lull of speech.

Silence weighed heavily on France, bringing thoughts from his mouth before he could stop them. "I-I, I don't know if I can do this, _Angleterre_," he muttered, eyes locking onto his lap as if they could give him the answers to all his question, all his troubles.

Arthur blinked, pulled out of his thoughts by the words, "Can't do what?" he asked.

France continued on as if he didn't hear him. Any thoughts about editing what he said went out the window as mental and physical exhaustion took over his mind. "It hurts too much."

Arthur took in a slow breath of the dry antiseptic air, maybe the nurse hadn't done something right? " Do you need me to get the doctor?" he asked worriedly, "Do you need more painkillers?"

France's shook his head, a little too hard as the muscles in his neck tensed and throbbed. He took a deep breath, eyes closing as he leaned his head back against the pillow just a little more. "Life hurts too much." Pictures and images of wars, fighting, devastation flashed by. "So much war and hate in the world." He flinched again as his shoulder twanged. "Is-is all this worth all the pain."

Giving an even look for a while, Arthur then turned his gaze to the wall across him. It was a question he had asked himself, over and over when in the lulls of battles and even sometimes when he sat at home alone during the night. He licked his dry lips as he thought and then answered hesitantly," I'd like to think it is." He paused and gave a small shrug with his shoulders. "I don't think…I don't think I could go on through life if I did not think so."

Maybe it was the medication talking, or just everything they had gone through together, France didn't know, but he said something he had secret thought for years now. "You are stronger than I am, _Angleterre_." He sighed slightly, feeling as though a slight weight had been lifted off his shoulders, and if felt as though he could breath just a little easier.

Arthur's eyes darkened as he stared at the wall. Snippets of his own flaws and failures, and all the moments he had given up floated through like the tendrils of spiders web. "I'm not." England admitted. He continued speaking, though never once did his eyes turn to look at the other man, "As nations, we're stuck with a lifespan long enough to be a curse." His burning eyes narrowed at the wall, echoes of the past starting to creep and pick though his thoughts, "We remember the evil because humans are dark creatures. They kill, steal, rape and destroy." He stopped at that and turned his head away, eyes downcast at the floor and then tuned his gaze into his lap where his injured hand had been moved to. "But there are the other glimmers that make everything–maybe not worthwhile, but better" he finally admitted.

He curled his hand and gave a ghost of a smile. "Like a child with their mother, families together, communities coming to aid each other in times of need, laughter, lovers," he paused and looked to Francis, "a smile from a friend. They're all things that help the living continue with life." _Because if you were dead, what good is anything?_ Arthur thought grimly.

France scoffed, his eyes opening slightly to stare up at the ceiling. "It's hard when God's abandoned you," he muttered sourly. He sighed hard again, his eyes suddenly losing their anger and replaced soon with sadness and a non-physical pain. "I'm the laughing stock of the united nations."

Arthur was pulled out of his silent reverie and watched Francis with a blank look. "Why do you say that?"

Once more France sighed, this holding a burdened sadness, something that obviously he had been feeling forever. Still his lips were loose, words flowing out of his mouth that he would have never admitted to anyone, thinking he'd take them to his grave. "I-I used to be so powerful and now I'm useless. I can't even defend myself. No wonder no one..." Suddenly his words caught in his mind. He shut his eyes almost in embarrassment, though the words again made it that much easier for him to breathe. "Never mind. I shouldn't trouble you with such nonsense."

Arthur watched with a frown as Francis shut his eyes and stopped himself, it was easy for the Britton to see something was bothering him. "It's not nonsense," he voiced, "not if it bothers you."

"I-I don't know if I can do it anymore," France muttered, flinching in pain as his shoulder throbbed suddenly. He groaned shortly, taking the time to slowly shift, in an attempt to relieve the pain.

"Francis, you can't think like that." England muttered softly, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. His other hand twisted lightly in his lap and he brought it up to brush away one of his own bangs.

France relaxed his hand, turning his head away from England. He was ashamed, afraid that he had said too much. "I'm too tired, _Angleterre_," he whispered.

" Then let me help you, please," Arthur begged.

"I don't know if you can, _Angleterre_," he muttered, his eyes squeezing shut as a single tear ran down his cheek.

The idea of Francis giving up, on what he wasn't sure, made Arthur suddenly mad. It seemed as though every time France would look away he was distancing himself from Arthur. His mouth worked faster than his brain as he suddenly corrected, calmly and low, "Arthur."

France opened his eyes at the name, bringing his head around to look at him, a small flash of confusion breaking through the sadness.

England blinked and then opened and shut his jaw as he realized what he had said. He finally added, "It is okay to call me by my name."

France stared at him in disbelief before turning to look away. No, he couldn't do this, could deal with this. If he kept calling him England or _Angleterre_, he'd be able to distance himself, save himself even the littlest amount of pain. It would hurt but it would be for the best. He only hurt the people around him, caused unnecessary strife. He was worthless, useless, only a burden. He shouldn't bother Arth...England anymore.

Arthur had turned his gaze to the wall once again and tried to salvage the conversation when Francis said nothing, "But let me help you." A memory stirred and he admitted slowly, "I think I know a little of what you're going though." His voice had rasped at the end and Arthur began to wonder mildly if the room had always seemed so hot and dry.

Francis' breath caught in his throat. What had he meant by knew what he was going through? In what way? He couldn't possibly understand, could he? No, there was no way. His tired mind started swirling, making him dizzy, his stomach turning. All the weight that his admission had lifted suddenly came crashing back on his chest, stealing his breath. "_Angleterre_..." he whispered softly.

The Britton bit his tongue to stop his own anger and disappointment that Francis still wouldn't use his name from shading his words, although it sounded short to his own ears, "What?"

France flinched slightly at the tone, making him almost not say what he was about to. He wasn't sure why he even thought of this, but he could tell England wasn't going to go away. If he was here, maybe, maybe the fact that just talking to him seemed to make things easier was a sign. "Will...will you..._Angleterre_," he finally muttered. He was going to hurt anyway, and he was prepared for the worst. He had to ask. He couldn't not ask.

Tilting his head to look at Francis, his green eyes were contemplative as he waited for the rest of the request. "Will I what Francis?" he finally asked.

France continued to stare intently at the ceiling, his stomach twisting in knots. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes as he fumbled out the words. "Will you...help...me, _Angleterre_."

Arthur stopped fidgeting and stared at Francis unblinking having thought he had heard the words incorrectly. His words had suddenly evaporated while stared at the Frenchman, suddenly wishing that he would look back to him so he could look into the sky colored eyes. He knew asking for help, of any kind, was hard and that fact that Francis could do so now, so soon after all this, spoke volumes of his strength– though if he said it aloud, he knew he would be met with a rebuttal saying how it was false. He finally gave a small smile and nodded once, "Of course I will. You know I always will."

Again, France closed his eyes, trying to fight back tears. How much had he cried in the last few days, weeks even? He was sure he had asked that same question of himself earlier that day, but he just couldn't stop the tears. Slowly the weight was gone again, making his chest feel almost empty and hollow. He had been holding it for so long, he didn't know what to do now without it. "I...I don't want to feel alone anymore," he whispered, not intending for England to hear it.

"You never had too," Arthur said sadly. He felt cold at France's admission, wondering what he and everyone else had done to make him feel that way–that they weren't there for him. He watched a tear go down Francis cheek and reached out to dry it with his gloved hand, swearing silently to himself to do his most so the other nation wouldn't cry anymore, to alleviate whatever was ailing him.

Opening his watery blue eyes he turned to look at him. He tried to twist his shoulder, wanting to take in the complete sight of England. The slight movement sent a wave of pain throughout his body, the poison's long lasting effects making itself known. His shoulder ached angrily, making him gasp and groan the pain away.

His gloved hand moved from Francis' tear stained cheek and moved to his hair, "We're all here," Arthur said softly as images of their friends ingrained in his mind filled his own heart and added warmth to his voice, "You just have to hold your hand out."

France looked at him out of the corner of a squinted eye. He couldn't believe it, couldn't imagine that it would turn out this way. His head was still swirling, trying to wrap his head around it all. "_Angle_..." Suddenly the name didn't sound right, it wouldn't pass his lips, his tongue suddenly feeling heavy. "Arthur."

Arthur gave a small smile at hearing his name finally. His fingers tightened around Francis' hand and ran soothingly though his hair. "You just have to stay strong." He whispered, "No matter how black the sky, no matter how many clouds cover your sun, they'll clear." They would, just like they had for him long ago, " You just have to be strong and persevere. If not for yourself," he paused and looked at Francis pleadingly, "than for someone else?"

Francis watched him, just looking at him. For the moment, he was able to push all the questions, all the doubts, all the pain, all the everything away. The way that England...no, that Arthur was looking at him now seemed to make everything else vanish and melt away. Cautiously, afraid that if he even breathed wrong that the moment would be gone forever, he wrapped his fingers around Arthur's hand, returning the encouraging grasp. His grip tightened suddenly, afraid to let go, to be left alone again.

Arthur gave a smile and felt content to sit there simply near Francis' side. He held on to Francis hand and hoped, in some deep compartment in his heart, that it would all be okay.

* * *

Please review if you enjoyed it, and I promise, there will be some more humor in the story. We understand there is only so much pain we can put Francis through. Poor Francis ;_;

notes: (I hope they are right, I only know Latin and Japanese. If they're wrong please PM me so I can fix it)

_Ce n'est pas votre faute_: It's not your fault.

_C'est mon défaut. Tout est mon défaut. J'ai blessé chacun, causé chacun la douleur_.: It is my fault. Everything is my fault. I hurt everyone, caused everyone pain.

_N-non. Non, j-je ne s-s-uis pas_: N-No, I-I'm not alright.

_Je ne p-peux pa-as, pas en-c-core_: I can't, not yet.

_Je vais attendre jusqu'a ce que vous pouves ensuite_: I'll wait untill you can then

AND THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH FOR ALL YOUR SUPPORT


	4. Chapter 4

Hey guys! Chris here! I want to thank you so much for the reviews! They are awesome and we'll try to respond to each one. Here is what was the third part of chapter 3, but it was too long and we had to separate them. I hope you enjoy and please review! For every review you make a polar bear stop crying.

*Chris*

AHHHHHH! So guys, thanks again for reviewing us and if you haven't...WHY DO YOU MAKE THE POLAR BEARS CRY!!!! I must say that I have been pestering Chris about finishing this story well into the wee hours of the morning, which is easy for me to do currently since I am seriously hyped up on sugar. Wheeeeeeeee. Anyway, don't be mean and help me comfort the cute but sad polar bears!

^Kage^

* * *

**The Fading Rose**

**Chapter Four**

The day had finally come and Arthur felt a little nauseated in nervous thoughts. He was near Francis' bedside once again, looking in interest as Matthew packed up the last of Francis' belongings while at the opposite side of the room Alfred was nodding at the words of a mousey nurse who was ticking off items with her fingers. Green eyes flickered towards where the blonde Frenchman sat, legs dangling over the side of the bed he had been constricted to for the past few weeks. He looked wan to the Britton and if he didn't know any better, he would say slightly nervous too. Of course that was probably Arthur's own nervousness seeping out.

Matthew's hair bobbed slightly as he straightened up from finishing packing all of Francis' belongings up. He nudged his glasses with his finger and gave a small smile, "Are you feeling okay Francis?" he asked.

Francis looked to Canada, giving him a tired smile. His skin held a healthier glow, though his eyes still looked worn. The blue was dull from the hospital experience, never being one to like them too much to begin with. The comfy sweat pants and shirt he had allowed himself to wear, seemed to swallow his thin frame. "I'm alright, Matthew."

Matthew's smile became doubtful, but he looked over to his brother who tapped on the door with two loud knocks. The nurse had left and he looked between the three men in the room with a questioning look. "Yo! Nurse said we're free to go now! All set?"

Arthur had turned to Matthew to ask if he had finished with the packing, but upon seeing the zipped black tote in his hands, turned and looked to Francis once again. He resisted the urge to pull on his gloves out of nervous fidgeting and realized that this was it.

France, glanced about the room, as if checking to see he had left anything. He was stalling, still nervous and unsure about this whole arrangement. He didn't wish to burden Engla...Arthur. This whole thing just didn't feel right to him. With a small, concealed sigh he glanced back at Alfred. "I-I suppose we are."

Alfred clapped his hands and held them apart as if he were expecting a football. "Dude!" he called to his brother, "throw me the bag, I'll take it to the car." Rather than throw it, Matthew gave the smallest roll of his eyes and handed over the black bag to Alfred. When his frame disappeared from the doorway, the Canadian's eyes turned to look at Francis and Arthur.

Arthur watched as France tried to get off the bed weakly and he moved in to offer his hand. "Um, let me help you," he mumbled. The wheelchair was near the bed, but he didn't know fully if the man wouldn't fall.

France felt his muscles quiver weakly as he attempted and failed. He bowed his head in defeat. "Thank you _Angl_..." he muttered weakly, catching himself, "Arthur."

Arthur helped Francis, mostly supporting him, into the wheel chair by the bed, making sure to be careful of the arm still resting in the sling.

Matthew watched with a frown as Francis shook lightly, "_Avez-vous besoin de quelque chose avant de nous quitter_?" he asked the other French speaker.

France's ears perked up slightly, his native language registering easily in his tired brain. He nodded slightly, glancing up at Matthew." _Je crois que je suis très bien._" The words flowing from his mouth were easier than any he had in the past weeks since the...incident.

Looking between Matthew and Francis, the rapid French went over his head and he looked at them both in confusion. Finally, he turned his gaze to Matthew. "Alright then, could you open the door Matthew?"

"S-Sure." Matthew moved over to the door and swung the pane wide.

Arthur nodded to him in thanks and began to push, albeit awkwardly, Francis out of the Hospital room and out the door. He noticed Alfred as soon as they left the room who was leaning again the wall with his arms folded with the black bag tucked under his arm, a smile on his face. His eyes seemed to gleam in the florescent light.

"Hey, we could have a race down the hall since he's in a wheel chair!" he said excitedly.

Arthur gave him a brief stare, as if trying to say how stupid of an idea that was with his eyes only. When the gleam didn't leave his eyes, he finally growled out, "America…"

The childish glee didn't seemed fazed at all. "It'd be like a race car!" When all he was met with were two blank stares and a more heated one from his former caretaker, he held out his hands as though he couldn't understand his family. "Come on! It's not like no one has never wanted to do it before!"

Arthur could only mutter out sarcastically, "That has to be the best idea I've ever heard." He continued to push Francis down the hallway.

Alfred kept up easily, dogging the way of any medical personnel walking by. "Oh, come on! It'd be awesome!"

"Go get the car Alfred, "Arthur gritted out slowly.

America nodded, "Alright." He looked over to his brother, "Hey! Mattie, I bet I can get to the car and back before you all can get to the doors."

Matthew looked slightly alarmed and held out his hand, "Alfred, don't run through the hospital!"

Obviously ignoring him, Alfred bent down as though starting a race and called out, " Ready. Set. Go!" He took off down the hall, not even checking if Matthew was behind him.

"Alfred!" Matthew called out again, but the American had already disappeared around a corner.

"Idiot's going to crack his head open," Arthur mumbled and shook his head, continuing to wheel Francis down the hallway.

Gradually they moved throughout the halls, passing unnoticed in the corridors. As they passed the nurses' station, one of France's frequent nurses approached them with a smile, followed closely behind by Doctor Howes. "I'm happy to see you leaving here, Mr. Bonnefoy," she stated cheerfully, clasping her clipboard to her chest. "Now, remember to take your medicine and come back next week to see about those stitches," she cooed, all the while, the smile never falling from her face.

France gazed up into her face quickly before glancing away, an embarrassed blush creeping across his face. He didn't like the idea of having to come back here any more than he liked being treated like a fragile doll. Though he suppose he was fragile, or maybe just weak and nothing could be done about that.

"We will be." Arthur said, returning the smile to the nurse.

France nodded slowly, stretching his lips into a smile he hoped looked genuine. "Thank you," he said softly to the nurse.

Doctor Howes watched him with careful eyes, also wary about the whole thing. It wasn't his usual policy to let an attempted suicide patient go without a prescription for anti-depressants, or scheduled therapy appointments. Arthur had assured him that he would take care of the later and that he would rather not risk the previous' side effects. At least he had gotten the green-eyed man to agree to take the prescription to be filled if Francis' demeanor did not get any better. Speaking of Arthur, he glanced up at the other nation, a warning creeping up his throat. "And remember to take it easy, that goes for both of you. Nothing too strenuous just yet."

"They won't doctor." Canada said softly.

"I'm fine now, " Arthur assured the doctor, "but thank you." He could see something flash behind the doctor's eyes at the words, but said nothing. Arthur thought he was fine, nothing to worry over at this point. He looked down to the top of Francis' head. It was that man that he had to worry over, not himself.

A strain smile made its way onto Dr. Howes' face, the steady irritation he had developed while treating this more than usual stubborn man was wearing his nerves. "But still, Mr. Kirkland, try and take it easy," he said, a threat somehow sneaking its way into the undertone of his voice. "I don't want to see either of you back here too soon."

"You won't," Arthur said, not liking being told what to do. He would have folded his hands over his chest, but rather kept them on the handles to the wheelchair.

"Thank you again for everything doctor." Matthew said with a smile, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

Arthur nodded again and then looked back at the hallway they had been walking though. The doors could be seen not too far away. "Alright, let's be heading home then."

France had been sitting patiently in his wheelchair; not looking up to met anyone's gaze. He had not missed the apprehensive look in the doctor's eye. It suddenly irked him deeply. He didn't want all these looks of pity or sadness, if that was what he was going to get then he would rather be left alone. He knew he was weak and useless, knew that before all of this started. He didn't need constant reminders. Somehow, Arthur's words reached him, easing the frustration away. He glanced up shortly at him, before he brought his gaze back to his lap, right arm fiddling with the sling. He nodded his head slowly, and the chair lurched forward.

While Arthur pushed the wheelchair down the hall, he gave a final look at the white walls happily to know that their time spent here was coming to an end. He was in a somewhat pleasant mood despite the nervous fluttering until Matthew made an odd sound emitted from his throat. Arthur looked at him quizzically, but the look was never returned. Rather, he kept staring at the entrance they had been walking towards. Eyes sliding from Matthew who picked up his pace to the doors, he found himself looking at Alfred nearly doubled over, holding his sides outside the panes of glass that was the entrance.

The automatic doors opened with a swish as Canada walked through first, "Alfred? What's wrong?"

Arthur followed though the doors, stopping beneath the awning outside and next to where Alfred and Matthew were. He held tightly onto Francis' wheelchair, not seeing anything wrong with the American.

Finally, Alfred looked up from his bangs forming words between pants, "H-Hey…Matt…hew…"

"W-what?"

Alfred let go of his stomach to form a thumbs-up and gave a smile, "I-I beat…you here."

France stared at the powerful nation in disbelief before shaking his head softly. "Was he dropped on his head as a child," he muttered under his breath, unhappy at how gravelly it sounded.

England blinked and looked down at the Frenchman before looking back to America. "I wish," He muttered. Because in all honesty, it would be able to explain so much.

America saw their frowns and waved his hand at them dismissively, "H-Hey," he said between the heavy pants, "You're…just… jealous….that I…beat you…guys here…" he pushed the hair away from his face, though it fell right back since he was still doubled over.

"Belt up." Arthur snapped back.

Canada who had abandoned Alfred's side after realizing that there was nothing more wrong than usual with the super nation dusted his pants off quickly, "Ummm, the car?" he asked the group.

Alfred didn't look up and pointed across from him, "Parked….over there." He straightened up and took a deep breath to control his breathing again. "I put the stuff in the trunk," he said looking to Francis.

Absinthe eyes traveled from America's finger to where he had been pointing. "Did you park perpendicularly in a parallel spot?" he finally asked.

"Psh…no." Alfred said. He cleaned his glasses with his shirt as he muttered, "We should probably leave soon though before we get a ticket."

Deciding to leave the argument and or lecture for later, Arthur looked over to Canada. "Could you get the door?" he asked while they made their way over to the car.

"Yeah, hold on." He said and opened the black car door as they came to a stop.

"Alright then, America, could you help me?" Arthur gestured to Francis, knowing the man would not be able to get into the car with his own strength.

"Yeah, sure. No problem."

France's face contorted in a small scowl, and he attempted to straighten in his chair. He flinched slightly as his shoulder gave a sharp twang in protest. "I can do it myself Arthur," he said, his voice coming out slightly smoother than before.

Arthur was standing by his side and looked down to him. He gave a short sigh while looking into his eyes. "I don't think you can," he admitted, "but if you want to try…"

The blue-eyed nation turned his gaze on the open door and seat only feet away. His right hand grasped the arm of the wheelchair and placed his feet on the ground. Stubbornly he willed his muscled to work, feeling a burning as they tried to obey, the effort stealing his breath and making his frame tremble. Still, Francis pushed, eyes shutting in concentration. A sudden jolt of pain from his spine buckled his knees and sent him back into the chair, his shoulder hitting none too gently against the back. "Ah..." Francis gasped, right arm immediately coming to grasp his left shoulder. "..._cel mal_," he muttered, hopefully quiet enough so no one would hear.

With a shake of his head, Arthur muttered quietly under his breath, "I told you so."

Canada looked from the other side of the car in concern having heard the French from Francis, "_Etes-vous bien? Bevrais-je vous aider?_"

Arthur watched as Francis looked away from all of them, a defeated look in his eyes. He scratched the back of his neck and closed his green eyes briefly. Slumping his shoulders and then straightening them, he held out his hand. " Let me help you. Take my hand and I'll help you up."

Keeping his eyes glued to the ground to hide the shame and loss that he could not keep from his face, he nodded solemnly. "_Oui, je suppose que je suis encore faible_," he mumbled as if that would explain everything. He was exhausted; the small exertion left him fighting off the need to sleep. When had everything become so hard? When had he become so frail? His head bowed slightly, traitorous thoughts working their way in. _Before all this, long before all this_, he thought sorrowfully. Slowly and weakly he brought his good hand up to grasp England's gently.

Supporting him tenderly, Arthur helped him ease out of the chair, slightly surprised when Canada came and supported Francis' waist and side after he and Alfred had at some point switched sides. They moved slowly and hesitantly, Arthur staying hyper aware to make sure they weren't hurting the man. As Francis' breath became more labored, he voiced his concern. "If it hurts, say so alright? I don't want to hurt you and send you back to the hospital." They were halfway into the car and the tan interior.

France shook his head in assurance, his breath hitching slightly as he was finally eased onto the edge of the seat. He could feel his legs trembling from his weight, and wondered silently if he would ever go back to a small sense of normal. He felt Arthur's hands still on him, and turned to gaze into worried green eyes. Francis gave him a small smirk, before whispering out, "_D'accord_."

Matthew and Arthur finally situated Francis in to the seat and Matthew pulled away while Arthur began to buckle him in. He pulled at the tan band and bent over Francis' waist, mindful of not bumping into him. As he fiddled with the metal tip and the buckle, growling when it wouldn't lock and realizing that it was the wrong buckle, he saw Alfred pull the wheelchair away to return it to the hospital. He fished in between the seats for the missing buckle, giving a small '_ta-dah_' to himself when he pulled it out. Suddenly noticing how close he and Francis' bodies were, the buckle came together with a click and Arthur pulled away quickly, hoping the blush that had suddenly assaulted his cheeks wasn't noticeable.

Matthew opened the other side of the car, sliding into the seat next to Francis. Arthur closed Francis' door and walked to the passenger's side of the car. As he slid into the seat and shut the door, waiting for Alfred to come back, Mathew cleared his throat gently. Arthur turned and arched his back to look at Canada, "Y-You're not driving Arthur?" he asked with apprehension.

"No." Arthur turned back into the seat and folded his arms. "It's your brother's car."

Arthur could barely repress a smile when a groan came from the back. "_Oh mon Dieu, nous allons tous mourir_," Canada bemoaned.

Alfred opened the car door and fell into the driver's seat, giving all the passengers a smile as he looked through the rear view mirror, "All ready to go?"

France shifted himself, turning so there was a space between the seat and his left shoulder, his right hand cradling the sling. He glanced slowly between the three other nations, his blue eyes falling onto his fellow French speaker, stomach turning slightly as he saw Matthew's ashen face. "_Sien qui conduit n'est pas ce mauvais_?" he asked hesitantly, glancing at the back of Alfred's head before turning to look back at his brother. "_Est lui_?"

Canada looked to Francis fearfully, and still speaking in his accented French said, "_It would make even Russia cry_." He gripped onto the divots in the door.

Francis felt his eyes widen a little, his right hand slipping up to grab hold of the handle above the window. French should be comforting, it was familiar and easy for him to understand. But Canada's words only made his stomach lurch. "_Ah mon dieu_," he said, more as a prayer than anything else.

Matthew nodded and looked back to the front of the car, he then looked to Francis, "_Yeah, maybe we can still ask Arthur to drive_?" he muttered in French.

At those words however, the two English speakers began to bicker lightly, Alfred fitting the keys into the ignition. The car came to life with a purr and moved to shift the car into drive. "Here we go then!"

"Alfred, please drive sanely." Arthur requested, eyes flashing in warning.

Alfred looked indignantly to England, "Hey!" he said defensively, "I drive perfectly well. I was taught by the people who invented cars after all."

Arthur twisted his head to look at the driver, "And who might that have been?"

"Well, Feliciano."

Arthur looked slightly horrified. Alfred gave him a smile before something caught his eyes from the rearview mirror. "Oh shit." He muttered and suddenly the car seemed to swing out of the parking spot, stop, and pull out quickly into the lane adjacent to the hospital. "Cops are coming." He muttered to the rest of his captive audience.

France fell back against the seat from the sudden jerk, sending an agonizing jolt throughout his body. His right hand left the handle, moving back to cradle his arm once more. Again, he found his breath coming in spurts, hitching as he tried to fight back against the pain. His fingers clutched his left shoulder tightly, shooting a small glare out of one opened eye. "_This evil shoulder_!" he cursed in French, turning quickly to hide his discomfort from Canada.  
"Alfred!" Arthur admonished.

America however was too gleeful at evading a ticket and didn't heed the seething undertone to Arthur's words. "Ha! They didn't see me!" he laughed and kept his hands firmly on the wheel, "Looks like we'll get to the highway in no time."

Canada's hands shot out to keep Francis from hitting anything as the car turned sharply, though he noted to himself that Alfred seemed to be mindful of Francis' wound, for he would never turn sharply to the right.

Arthur's hands seemed to go between wanting to throttle the driver and holding onto the car's handles for dear life. "Alfred F. Jones!" he finally called out, "Drive normally or I will hijack this car and leave you on the side of the road with nothing but your underwear!"

Matthew could have sworn he heard a teasing 'only if you promise' from Alfred before he choked out his own plea, " Alfred! D-Do you think you could slow down just a little?"

Alfred's bright eyes met his brother's in the mirror, "Why?"

"Because…I want to look at the leaves?" Matthew finished lamely.

As he leaned into Canada slightly, thankful for the support as he glanced up at the two nations from a squinted eye. "_America, please slow down_," he gasped out through gritted teeth, the French flowing out quickly from his tight lips.

However the plea went unheard since Alfred couldn't speak a word of French. He had looked up into the mirror to look at Francis upon hearing the foreign language, but went back to looking at the road as he argued with Arthur. "Sorry," he addressed Francis, eyes still on the road ahead, "I don't know a lot of French. But if you really want to look at the leaves Mattie, shouldn't you wait till Fall?" Despite the curious tone, the car slowed down greatly; however they were still speeding according to the speed limit signs posted along the side.

Arthur looked from Alfred in amazement and then turned to look at Matthew as though he had solved one of life's greatest questions. In broken French, slow and clumsy on his tongue, he asked, "_How did you know that would work_?"

Alfred frowned, "Never realized you were such a tree hugger Mattie. And seriously guys, what's with all the French?"

Matthew gave a patient smile, "_Many road trips_" he said fluently, knowing happily that his brother had absolutely no idea what they were talking about.

Arthur would have asked more, but the crinkle of a map caught his attention. "Would you please keep your eyes on the road!" he cried, reverting back to his native English.

"But I need to know where I'm going!" he whined.

"I'll tell you!"

"Yeah, but you give awful directions."

Since the road ahead of them was fairly safe, Arthur decided to risk it and crossed his arms over his chest as he glared at the younger nation. " I do not!"

Alfred rolled his eyes, " Oh yeah? Then who got us lost that last time we traveled together?"

Arthur spluttered before he could answer, " Y-You took a left when I said right! And then you decided that if you kept going right we would get back to the road!"

"Is that right?" America said disinterested.

Canada turned from the argument to look at Francis who looked even paler than before. "_They always argue, don't they_?" he asked rapidly in French, trying to create a conversation.

The car started to drift, forgotten by the two arguing nations, and hit an unseen pothole in the road. Despite Matthew's cradling hands, France's shoulder found a way to strike the seat again, throbbing angrily. Francis bit back a cry; biting his lips so hard he tasted blood.

"_A-Ah! Are you alright_?" Matthew asked in worry.

From the front of the car, Alfred and Arthur continued to argue. "You're reading the map upside down!" Alfred called.

"I am not you, wanker," Arthur snapped back.

France flinched stiffly, glancing back at Canada before subsuming to the slowly fading pain. "_I will be alright_," he choked out in his native tongue. He shifted his shoulder carefully, testing the pull of the still healing wound. "_I-I do not believe the stitches have come undone_." He rested his head back, eyes twitching as he tried to control his breathing.

Matthew looked at the man who had once raised him and bit his lip in concern. "_Do we need to stop for a moment_?" he asked in his French. His hand left Francis' side for a moment to straighten the glasses he wore.

Weakly, France picked his head up and forced a small smile. "_No, it will pass_," he muttered, flinching again as his grip suddenly tightened on his shoulder. He let out a controlled hiss, trying to muffle the sound. Another jolt wracked his frame. "_I hope_," he moaned, letting his head fall against the seat again.

"Bloody idiot! I said take the fucking left turn! That exit, see? Are you even listening to me?" Arthur yelled at Alfred. He was about to resume yelling, but the muttering in French had caught his attention. He twisted to see France's pained face and his own contorted in concern. "Are you alright?"

"Yes," France muttered in English, his tongue feeling clumsily and foolish as he opened his eyes and attempted to smile reassuringly at Arthur. "W-w are f-fine."

Arthur quirked a brow and looked over to Matthew for confirmation.

Canada nodded, "_Oui_," he began and stopped remembering to switch back to English, "Yeah, he's alright for now."

Arthur didn't look an inch convinced. "If you say so."

When Arthur turned back mostly in the seat, Matthew turned his violet eyes to Francis, "_You should tell us when it hurts so we can help you_," Matthew reverted back to French.

Arthur looked back once more at the two, wanting to know why Matthew's voice had taken on a softer tone. However, the rapid French had gone over his head and he was left clueless to what the conversation entailed.

Francis watched as Arthur turned back around, his own gaze coming to settle on the floor. Could he deceive Arthur that easily? No, there had been a look of knowing in those green eyes. He felt Canada shifted nervously beside him, though still taking care not to jostle him. "_I-Il toujours maux_," he said, before he had time to stop himself. It was true, it always did hurt, but he wasn't just speaking in the physical sense. His injuries, the poison, they all just brought everything to the forefront, a means that just brought out what he had been feeling for a long time now. "_Il n'y a rien à faire_."

Canada looked at him sadly, his eyes brimming with hurt. "_You should tell Arthur though. He wants to help you as much as he can_." He paused and tilted his head slightly, _" We all need to know if you're in pain so we can help_."

Arthur had once again turned to look at the pair of blondes when he heard his name. "Did you say something?" he asked Canada, eyes flickering in both concern and curiosity.

Matthew gave a smile, " No, I was just asking Francis something."

Arthur seemed to be about to say something when Alfred called to him, "Hey! Map Man! Where am I going?"

"Hold on Alfred!" Arthur yelled back at him, turning back to face the road and grab the map.

Once more the road was left unattended, causing them to go over an unfixed heave in the road, sending France back towards the seat, against Matthew's best efforts. France was panting with pain, unsure of how much more he could take of this. He hadn't expected it to take this much out of him. He had been gathering strength during his stay in the hospital, finally able to sit up and move about slowly without help and not being fully taxed by the effort. All of that strength, gone, and Francis was left feeling as though all that had amounted to nothing. _I should be used to it_, he thought sadistically in his head, once more his thoughts going to how powerless he was before all of this started.

"Hey! You took the map!" Alfred's voice drifted to the back.

"Really? I had no idea." Came the muttered reply as Arthur straightened the map.

Alfred's eyes left the road to look at Arthur for a brief second. "Was that sarcasm?"

"Sarcasm?" green eyes flitted up, " Me? Never."

There was a sigh, then, " Just tell me where to turn."

"_We'll be there soon_," Matthew told the Frenchman quietly, reverting back to Francis' native tongue.

France nodded stiffly, moving his eyes to look into the violet eyes hesitantly. He tried to force some reassurance into his face, unsure if he had the strength or the will to do so. "_I-I will hurt until the damage of the poison is healed_," he muttered quickly in French, pausing and turned his gaze to the window, sneaking in a short glance at Arthur. "_There is no need to bother Arthur any more than I already am_."

Arthur sat in his seat, looking out of the window when he listened to the soft and seemingly…sad tones of both Canada and France. He didn't bother to look at them, knowing he'd be shut from the conversation again. He wondered if maybe it would be better for Francis to stay with Matthew. It was nearly tangible the ease that Francis had with conversing in his own language, rather than having to struggle to process the English in his weakened state. Not only that, Arthur mused slightly hurt, but Francis was saying more to Matthew now then what had gone between Francis and Arthur during the last few days.

Matthew adjusted his glasses again and looked to Francis in concern, a frown set on his lips as he continued in French. "_You aren't bothering him, I think Alfred is_."

Francis was momentarily brought out of his brooding by the sudden joke. He attempted to chuckle, only succeeding in a soundless laugh, which stung his throat. Disregarding the little pain, he turned to smile weakly at Canada, a small but fragile true smile.

"Artie." Came the sudden whine from Alfred.

Arthur had finally come to the brink of his patience and the new pestering on his quickly growing foul mood made him suddenly beyond irked. "GOD DAMN IT, WHAT ALFRED?" He yelled.

Alfred looked at him curiously as they sped past a white house with a large elm outside. "Isn't that your house?"

Arthur looked at him then out the window to see where they were and turned back, red in the face from a repressed anger, " WHY DIDN'T YOU SAY SOMETHING!" he snapped, he flexed his fingers with the sudden urge to wrap them around Alfred's neck, tightly.

Alfred seemed to see the black gloom around England, "Jeesh, I'll just turn around."

Weakly from the back, Canada whimpered, _"…Mon Dieu_."

Alfred looked into the mirror, " Hey! I heard that Matt!"

The car suddenly lurched to a stop, the squeal of brakes assaulting all of the car's occupants' ears. Alfred's arm wrapped around the back of Arthur's seat as he looked back and shifted the car into reverse. Everyone slammed against their seatbelts as Alfred drove back to the white building.

The jerk on his seat belt made his shoulder roar in pain, not helped any when his back came to rest against the seat again. It ripped through him easily, his vision exploding in blinding white as he curled around his injured limb. "_Merde_!" he gasped out, before gritting his teeth together.

Matthew wasn't fast enough to stop Francis from hitting the seat and cringed when his back hit the cushion. Upon hearing the curse in French, Canada turned angrily to his Southern brother. " _Vous allez etre Les Etats-Unis imbicille_." He snapped. He continued in French while combing over Francis' appearance to see if he was alright, " _Pouves-vous ne voyez pas que vous etes le blesser_?"

America looked up at hearing the French variation of his name to see the scathing look of Matthew and then briefly to Francis. "We're here."

"I'm having your license revoked." Arthur said after a moment in the silence of the ignition being killed.

Alfred waved it off and opened his car door, "Hey, Feliciano said I'm a great and safe driver." He paused as though coming upon a sudden revelation. "Though he said I was really slow when I drove…"

He got out of the car and shut the car door at the same time as Arthur. Matthew shook his head and reached over to unbuckle Francis. Violet eyes looked up worriedly as the clasp came undone and the buckle strap slowly re-wound itself.

Francis was resting his head against the seat again, still cradling his arm. He took slow and deep breaths, trying to fight the exhaustion and fatigue away. He had made it to the house, the one he would be staying at, with Arthur. The sudden realization made his heart skip a beat, his breath coming in pants again, cold sweat forming on his forehead. This was it, no turning back now.

Arthur pulled on the car door handle and opened Francis' door. However when he took a look at Francis, his heart nearly fell onto the asphalt. "Francis? Are you alright?" He could feel his heart flutter in fear for his …friend's well being and his gloved hand tightened around the frame of the car.

France flinched slightly at hearing the worry in Arthur's voice. It still confused him, but he didn't have enough strength to let his mind wonder on it. He turned his head to look at him, marveling slightly as he watched the sunlight bounce off of Arthur's hair, the green eyes seeming to shine. Francis felt his mouth open slightly, as if he was about to say something, but quickly closed it, twisting it into a small smile instead.

"_O-oui_, I'll be fine Arthur," he whispered softly.

Moss colored eyes looked at Francis' pale complexion, taking note of the soft sheen of perspiration on his brow and fatigue in his eyes. He gnawed lightly on the inside of his cheek as his thoughts flew, "Are you sure? Do we need to go back?"

France tried to keep the smile on his face as he felt a flash of anger pass through him. Truthfully, he didn't know if he could handle the trip back. He had done nothing but sit in a car, but the toll had been taken. His whole body was heavy with exhaustion. He shook his head slowly at Arthur, stopping shortly after realizing a new symptom. Francis resisted the urge to lean his head back against the headrest as his head spun and swam, a dull throbbing starting in the base of his neck.

England refused to twist his hands like a fretting woman even though inside he felt as nearly hysterical as one. He passed his hand though his hair, causing it to stand up in several odd tufts. His hand rested at the back of his neck and he gave France a second apprising look, "If you're sure…"he began slowly.

France nodded gradually, still waiting for the tilting motion to stop.

Alfred called from the front step, "Hey! Where do you want this to go?" he asked holding up the black tote that held Francis' belongings.

Arthur straightened up and looked over the roof of the car. "The top and first to your right! It's the room with the blue shades!"

Looking back down to Francis, he looked away awkwardly and then back to look into Francis' eyes. "Well, uh…welcome home?"

France looked at Arthur, stared straight into his absinthe eyes. His heart leapt suddenly, eyes starting to burn. Arthur hadn't said his home, but just home. His head spun anew, causing the earth to jolt. He leaned forward before he could catch himself, with the help of England's hands as they came to rest gently on his form to steady him. What was going on? France gazed up into Arthur's worried face, so much closer than before. "_M-merci_, Arthur," he stuttered out, his face suddenly getting warm.

Arthur seemed to notice how close they were and pulled back after making sure Francis was steady. He could feel the heat assault his cheeks again and turned to Matthew who was standing near the trunk, clearing his throat, " We'll need to help him up the stairs." He turned on his heel when he felt the blood stop pooling in his cheeks and turned to look at Francis. His gaze darkened in warning as he looked over to the man still sitting in the car, chapped lips in a thin line and gold spun hair looking frazzled from an obvious overall fatigue. "Don't argue with me either. You need rest and climbing a set of stairs alone isn't going to help."

France nodded slowly– still not overly happy with the need, but glad for the distraction, as he was able to fight the heat away from his own cheeks. It moved up into his forehead then slowly throughout his body. He shook his head, trying to fight back before turning a small though slightly nervous grin up at Arthur.

Taking it as a confirmation, Arthur gave a curt nod, "Good. Now Matthew, if you can support his waist, I can hold onto his arm to support him." He turned back his dark gaze at Francis, "Is that alright?"

Again he nodded, turning his head away in embarrassment. How much of a burden he was on Arthur already. He couldn't even find his voice, couldn't move about on his own, and now his head was spinning.

Arthur gave a small sigh, "Alright then." Together with Canada, they slowly helped move Francis out of the car, until they were at that point Arthur wrapped Francis' good arm around his own shoulders to support as much weight as he could. As they slowly made their way up the path from the road to the front door, Arthur looked up to Francis muttering, "Say if anything hurts."

On the other side of Francis, Matthew gave the blue-eyed man a knowing look, pertaining to their earlier conversation.

France felt the violet eyes' gaze and turned to shoot a warning one back out of the corner of his eye. He was fine, he just needed to rest, he was fine. "_Oui_, Arthur," he said between pants as he stumbled another foot forward.

Matthew sighed at the stubbornness of his parent, but said nothing.

When they finally got to the door, a dark navy blue, America swung it open and held it aside for them to trudge though. They crossed the threshold and made their way to the stairs only a few steps away. England paused by the bottom step, giving France another look, "Are you sure you're okay?" he asked looking up to the man in concern, "You'd tell me if you need to stop?"

Francis could feel the sweat drip into his eyes, his whole body shaking, muscles trembled as they fought to work. His chest hurt, throat dry from trying to gasp in air with each quivering breath. The lightheadedness and pounding returned with new vigor. He shut his eyes against it as best he could, trying to keep moving. He refused to be useless, to be a huge burden. He had to do this, had to move, just a little longer. He moved his foot to continue forward, unsure of how long he could keep himself standing.

Matthew's voice popped up suddenly, "Actually, my back hurts. Can we wait for a moment?"

Arthur leaned back to look at him from behind Francis' backside, "Yeah, we can wait," he said, surprised that it was Matthew they were stopping for.

Cautiously, Francis opened one of his eyes to look at Matthew, surprise and confusion fighting for control. What was Matthew doing? As they stood there, he felt both the men shift to take more of his weight, the stress on his tired limbs easing slightly, his breathing slowed and became a little easier.

Canada turned to give Francis a large smile, one that clearly said 'I know you are in pain and lying about it, so take this moment of rest and shut up'.

France flinched at the look. Though he hated to admit it, he felt slightly stronger. He bowed his head in shame, deciding to fix his gaze on the stair before him.

Arthur noticed that Francis' shaking had subsided a little and he turned to look at Canada, " Are you ready Matthew?" he asked.

Canada was watching Francis closely and hesitated before answering, "I think so, thanks for asking," he replied, putting an emphasis on 'asking' for Francis.

Arthur nodded and looked up into the stairwell as they began their tedious ascent. He could feel Francis tense and he tensed his own muscles trying to take on more weight. They had made it halfway to the top and as the last steps began to come into sight, Arthur thought they might just make it to the guestroom without any trouble.

Without any warning, Francis felt his legs spasm, white searing agony washed over him, running up and down his spine. He couldn't help but give a short cry as he felt his knees buckle beneath him. It felt as though fire was consuming every part of his body. Muscles seized, to the point where he felt as though his bones would be crushed. His skin became hypersensitive, even the slightest of brushes made it feel as if he was being touched with a hot poker.

The doctor said something like this would happen, the sudden misfiring of the unprotected nerve endings would race if he truly overexerted himself. The thought was kept from his mind, the torturous pain chasing away all of his rationalizing power. He felt as if he was drowning, unable to breathe, his breath coming in uneven, shaking gasps.

Matthew's grip of Francis suddenly came loose at the suddenness of the fall and he turned to try and grab him. Arthur however caught him, both arms wrapped securely around his waist and under his arm. He grit his teeth as he slid his foot down a step to grab a better hold of the Frenchman, his injured arm flaring in pain as it supported nearly all of Francis' weight in the odd angle he had used to catch him. Matthew finally grabbed back his hold on Francis and helped Arthur to lift France back up. "Dear God!" Arthur cried, "Are you alright?"

France stayed still, praying the attack would pass. All he could hear was his own heartbeat, thudding loudly and unevenly in his ears. W-what was happening to him? He had had attacks like this before in the hospital, but never this bad. They were few between so he kept it from England, not wanting to put anymore worry on his beauti…he shook the thought from his head. No, he couldn't think like that, he didn't deserve to think like that.

Arthur's breath caught in his throat and he looked down at the slumped man, his blonde hair having fallen over his face and his body trembled as he fought for air through what was evidently pain. " Francis! Please, are you alright?"

Painstakingly, moments passed by but the pain slowly resided, at least going back to a level Francis could bear. His whole body felt as though it was made of lead, the entirety of his strength stolen from the episode. He gasped in the first deep breath, then another, trying to fight off the vertigo. Cautiously, he nodded his head at England before moving to stand. He lifted himself no more than an inch before his muscles collapsed on him again, the heat suddenly seizing him as his head throbbed viciously.

England looked over to Canada, then back to France who looked nearly pitiful in this state. He shook his head, mind made up, "You aren't." He looked up to the top of the stairs and stilled for a moment. Taking a deep breath, he bent down and slid his arm under Francis' knees and picked him up. Without another word, Arthur walked up the stairs leaving a startled Matthew below. The Britton could feel his breath grow heavy with the exertion and the pain slithering its way though his nerves wasn't helping either. He kept the grimace off his face, concentrating on getting to the room.

France gasped at the sudden movement, his head spinning and he shut his eyes as his stomach turned sourly. He felt strong arms grasp him tightly, accidently striking his left shoulder. He didn't have the energy to keep in the groan of pain, as he absent-mindedly rolled his head onto his carrier's shoulder, his forehead finding its way into the crook of England's neck. Arthur's skin felt blissfully cool against his searing skin. He curled further inward, moaning slightly against the pain.

Feeling Francis curl further into his grip, Arthur's green eyes looked down and he felt a pang of self directed anger that he had caused further pain for the man; however he did not stop as he came to the zenith and entered the guest room. He walked to the bed, which was donned with a simple patch quilt and a down comforter at the end of the bed. His muscles tensed and it took all of his strength to not drop him onto the bed, but to gently lie him down. Arthur pulled away from the bed, gasping lightly. He was surprised that something that would have been simple for him to do before, now was such a task. "Are-Are you alright?" he asked, still out of breath.

Matthew came though the doorframe, looking alarmed at Arthur. "The doctor said neither of you should exert yourself Arthur."

France kept his eyes closed, trying to calm his breathing to a point where his heart stopped racing. At once he missed the comforting feeling of Arthur…by him. The pain was slowly melting down to tolerable amounts, and he lay still, not daring to push his already bad luck. Upon hearing Canada's words, guilt struck his heart in an uncomfortable pang. Arthur was pushing himself too much; he needed to rest. He knew this was a bad idea, he knew he would be too much of a burden. If he had the strength, he would have left the house at once to spare Arthur the worry and pain.

Arthur seemed to notice the lull of silence and coughed lightly to hide his panting. He straightened to his full height and looked at Matthew evenly. "I'm fine."

Canada sighed at their stubbornness and, in his opinion, awful lying abilities. He moved toward the bed to help Francis get situated and allow Arthur more time to get his breath back.

When Matthew begun to prop up Francis with some pillows, Alfred came in and leaned against the door as he surveyed the room. "Everything cool?"

Arthur noticed with ire that the pain had not faded away from his wrist and he wished he could rub at it or run cool water over it. He stole a glance to Francis and then looked back to his wrist. There was no way that he could even touch his wrist in fear that Francis would see him and that horrible look of pain would re-enter his eyes. "I think so…" he finally muttered to Alfred.

France held his breath as Matthew slowly shifted the pillows behind him, letting it out in a sigh of relief as uncomfortable pressure was taken off his still angry shoulder. He was utterly exhausted, but sleep was the last thing on his mind. The pain in his head would not subside, and instead only grew, as did the ache of his tired limbs. Francis tried to push the pain away, focusing on his breathing instead. He felt himself start to shiver, silently grateful when Canada pulled the plush feather comforter over him, surrounding him quickly with a comforting heat. Sweat continued to form on his forehead, the heat still emanating from his brow and cheeks, was somehow not able to reach his chilled body.

Matthew watched Francis with worried eyes, feeling the slight quivering and tenseness of his body. Violet eyes gazed down at the older nation, finding that his skin had paled considerably since they had left the hospital. He bit his lip slightly, as he watched as France's arm seemed to move on its own, coming to grasp his left shoulder gingerly, all the while blue eyes never revealing themselves to the world. Canada glanced at the clock sitting on the bedside table before recognition hit him. He turned to face the two other standing nations, his eyes falling onto Arthur. "Arthur," he began in his soft voice. "Did you happen to pick up the prescriptions that the doctor wrote for Francis?"

"Of course." Arthur said and turned to the door. "They're downstairs. I'll go get them."

Matthew turned to look at his brother when their former caretaker left the room. They shared a look which told Alfred, 'go follow him' and turned his own gaze back to the sick Frenchman.

Alfred turned and walked out of the blue and white room, heading down the stairs to catch up to Arthur. He watched as the smaller man walked into his kitchen, holding his arm when he thought no one was behind him. Alfred heard him give a small hiss of pain and rubbed his arm while he walked to the icebox. A frown marred America's lips while he watched from the entrance of the kitchen as Arthur silently dealt with his pain, which he had told Alfred only this morning was no longer bothering him at all. Apparently he was lying.

Arthur pulled his left hand away from his burning wrist and delved into the icebox to retrieve an icepack. As soon as the cool packet touched his flesh, the pain began to recede and numb. He let out another sigh and began to search for the packet of medicine for Francis.

"Jeeze, Arthur you could have told us your arm still hurt."

Spinning around, he lifted his ice pack to chuck at the intruder until he noticed it was Alfred. He slumped, adrenaline rushing though his veins. "Alfred."

The American raised an eyebrow quizzically. " How'd you do it?"

Arthur turned and rummaged though the cupboards and drawers. "I carried Francis up the stairs."

"You did what?" Alfred was both surprised and a little livid at the stupid act. "You could have asked me, I'm stronger than you even when you are at full strength."

Arthur gave him a glare and looked over by the stove. "Don't brag. It's not a nice quality." He gave a sigh, no sight of the paper prescription bag in sight. "Where is that stupid bag?" he mused aloud.

"The blue prescription bag?"

Green eyes looked to blue as Arthur turned around, narrowing his eyes at the taller man. " Yes…"

"I put it on the top shelf."

"Why would you do that?"

Alfred blinked and gave a feeble shrug, "…to keep the kids from getting it?"

Arthur dipped his head into his palm and covered his eyes, "What kids?" He massaged the bridge of his nose before looking back to the younger nation. "Honestly, are you delirious?"

"No." He walked into the kitchen and gave Arthur a small push as he walked to the highest cabinet above the stove. "I'll grab them if you sit there," he said, "and take care of yourself."

"I said I was fine."

Alfred looked down at Arthur as he started to reach for the prescription bag, sarcasm dripping from his voice, " Yeah. I noticed."

Arthur sat down at the small wooden table near the window, clutching the icepack closer to his wrist. "Don't use sarcasm on me."

"Man," Alfred voice was muffled as he felt around the top of the cupboards, on the balls of his feet. He snatched the bag with an audible crinkle and turned back around to look at Arthur, his gaze serious. "You can't do anything stupid if you're going to take care of Francis. It's a lot of responsibility and you can't be anything less than well at all times."

England looked up indignantly as Alfred plopped the blue paper bag onto the table. "Are you –"

"Yep. I'm lecturing you, so sit down and shut up for a minute."

Alfred grabbed the other wooden chair and fell into it. He propped one of his elbows on the table, his face void of any of the usual cheerfulness, " Look, Matt and I know you two care for each other," he paused and waved his hand, " Hell, you were both like parents for us so it's kind of hard not to notice you two have a thing for each other." Alfred watched as Arthur's face reddened and opened his mouth to retort. He bulldozed on however, "But come on Arthur! You gotta be there for him and make sure you support him all the way."

"You gotta be strong. Everything you do is going to be directly effecting Francis now." A small smile crept back into Alfred's face, "And I'm sure Mattie would kill you if you hurt him." There was a pause and Alfred soon added, " Just so you know."

"I wouldn't" Arthur said softly, "Never on purpose."

Alfred leaned away from the table and rubbed at the nape of his neck. " Yeah, I know. And that's why I know everything will be all right." He looked away from Arthur's widened eyes and to the window.

Outside was a small garden, but more breath taking were the ancient trees that seemed to dot the property. He watched the wind bend some of the branches and shook his head, hand sliding away and onto the table. "We both know he's broken," America continued, his voice lower. "And I think you are the only one who can pull him back together. So, go be the awesome guy and go fix him so he can laugh and smile again, alright?"

Arthur stared at him in amazement and it took several tries to find his voice again. "T-Thank you." He looked down to his covered wrist and back to Alfred's eyes. "I think that is the most respectable and responsible thing I've ever heard you say."

Alfred stood up from the table, the chair giving a small screech as it scrapped against the tile floor. "I did live with you for a long time." He gave an exaggerated sigh and his hand seemed to be begging to the heavens. "Of course, I can't be the hero now, but a true hero gives sacrifices!"

Arthur looked back down to his hand. "And the respect is gone."

Alfred gave England a grin and grabbed the paper bag once again. "I'll bring the med's up if you finish taking care of yourself?" He pushed the chair back in and gave a lopsided smile. "We need you in tip top shape."

Arthur stood up from the table, moving back to the center of the kitchen. "Yeah, I'll be up as soon as I put this away," he said, pointing to the melting ice pack.

He watched from the icebox as Alfred went up the stairs. He rubbed at his hand and arm, taking solace in the silence of the kitchen. He gave a deep sigh and walked over to the slim cupboard near the sink. He opened it and grabbed a bright orange pill bottle with his own name on it. He opened it and shook a few small tablets into his palm. He swallowed them, pausing at the sink to wash them down. Alfred moved back to the stairs and checked his gloves and bandages to make sure that his scar was covered thoroughly. He walked into the room to see Matthew handing Francis his medicine.

France sat up carefully, leaning a lot of his weight into Canada as he helped prop him up. Francis put the pills into his mouth with a shaking hand. Matthew cautiously guided a glass of water, that he had acquired from the bathroom down the hall, to Francis' lips. France eagerly sipped the liquid, swallowing the pills and easing back into the pillows.

Matthew frowned slightly, placing the barely touched glass of water on the side table and helped lower France's back onto the bed. He moved his hand to grasp the damp washcloth by the glass and gently dabbed at France's forehead. Canada glanced up at Arthur with a small smile as he moved the cloth down to pat at Francis' warm cheeks. "Ah, Arthur, where is your thermometer," he asked, his voice cracking with worry.

Arthur stood silent for a moment, trying to think. He then began to exit the room, suddenly remembering, "Downstairs in the kitchen, I'll go get it."

Matthew coaxed France to take a few more sips of water, dumping the rest on the cloth to cool it down. He turned to Alfred, shifting nervously under his brother's gaze. "Hey Alfred, can you go get France more water.

Alfred gave another hefty sigh and grabbed the glass, leaving the room to fill it.

Matthew turned to look back at Francis, his face falling in a worried frown. He silently continued to dab at the warm skin, biting his lip nervously. Violet watched as the weakened nation shifted minutely, bringing with it a soft grunt of discomfort. Matthew sighed sadly, helpless. "Francis, you have to be more careful with yourself," he finally said, his voice no higher than a whisper.

Francis slowly opened his eyes, wishing to argue with him or at least put him at ease. His voice failed him, his mouth opening slightly before closing again, blue orbs shifting to look in a dark corner of the room.

Canada knelt down beside the bed, trying to coax France into looking at him, if not in the eye then at least in his general direction. "You have to tell Arthur if you're in pain," he pleaded with him, gently laying a quivering light hand on France's slung forearm. He paused, hoping for some response, heart sinking when he was only met with silence. Matthew switched tactics, trying anything to reach him. "I-if you don't, it will just take longer for you to heal, and-and put more stress on him."

His heart leapt when he saw Francis turn a fraction of an inch towards him, letting him know that at least the man was listening. "If you tell him, he'll be able to help you, and-and he won't worry so much," he added, the words pouring from his mouth.

France let out a small sigh, his entire body seeming to shrink as he moved his head to look down at the foot of the bed, eyes focused on nothing in particular. "I..I don't wish to burden him at all," he muttered lowly, an underlying pain easily heard. He had said it over and over and over again, countless times through out all of this. He didn't want to be a burden to anyone anymore. France wished that he could just go back to a time where he was powerful and respected, and not seen as a..a...liability. Especially not to Arthur.

Matthew smiled warmly and knowingly at Francis, wishing above all else that he could heal the broken man. He had already accepted that he couldn't do it. He could help, but it was beyond him. "I know, but he really wants you here," Canada cooed softly, giving France a gentle squeeze. "Being able to see you get better, I think will really help him get better." _And hopefully it will work the other way around_, Matthew thoughts seriously. It was no secret, not to those that knew what was happening–that Francis blamed everything on himself. Truth be told, they all could be seen equally as guilty.

When that raised no positive sign from Francis, he leaned forward, hoping to at least make the golden haired man relaxed. "Al-also," he started. Matthew knew he was not any good at making jokes, not on purpose anyway. "If you're here then you can keep an eye on him and make sure he doesn't do something st-stupid."

Slowly, France's lips broke out in a tiny smile. There was that one advantage, he supposed.

Canada's smile widened as he realized his words had broken through. "So heal quickly, and tell him how you're feeling," he said innocently, closing his eyes as his soft smile spread.

Francis eyes rounded, coming to stare intently at the bed sheets, a new heat reaching his cheeks. Why was he blushing, he didn't...no he shouldn't– should he tell Arthur? There was a sudden twisting in his stomach, lighter than anything he had before.

Matthew opened his eyes, caught off guard at the look on France's face. He welcomed it, however. Any emotion was better than the hurt and pain that had been permanently tattooed across his skin. He gently arranged the washcloth onto the creased forehead. "I meant tell Arthur if you're in pain, but either one works. It hasn't been a secret, at least not to Alfred and I." He paused feeling a small blush cross over his own cheeks. "We could tell that you've...um...liked each other." He moved to adjust his glasses, anything to distract him from his own blush.

Francis gazed up at him, his eyes slightly serene. For once in a long time, he actually looked calm, something that had not crossed his face even in sleep. Matthew had managed to break through the wall of guilt and pain, somehow, he had reached his heart. He smirked softly to himself, reminding himself how Canada had always had the power to reach him, even when he was such a small child. He was so innocent and kind, something he missed. If Matthew thought, that maybe it would help, maybe...maybe he could try. "Merci Matthew," he whispered, feeling his eyes swell. He felt his body slowly relax into the pillows. "Merci beaucoup."

Again Canada felt a blush creep across his face, waving his hand nervously. "Ah, de rein, Francis," he said quickly, through a smiling face.

Alfred walked into the room; the glass filled with water in his hand and looked over pointedly to his younger brother. "Can't speak French. Remember?"

Canada looked up to America with another smile. "Sorry, Alfred."

"Yeah, yeah. Here's the water." He handed the glass over to his sibling and looked to Francis who for some reason looked less pale and pained than only moments before.

Matthew wrapped his fingers around the glass, helping Francis lean forward a bit more and brought the cup to his lips again.

France sipped a little more, pulling away when he had his fill. He reclined into the pillows once again, clearing his throat as the water soothed the otherwise dry airway. He sighed lightly in content as he felt the pain medication start to take effect, as a lightness took over his body. "Thank you," he said, his voice sounding a bit stronger. "I…I feel better," he admitted, looking between the two younger nations, his face relaxed and calm.

Arthur returned to the room at that moment, out of breath from the climbing up the stairs. He handed the thermometer over to Matthew, ignoring his look of concern, "Here-here's the Thermom…meter." He passed it over and moved away to catch his breath out of sight of the others.

Matthew took the medical device with a nod, "Thanks." He picked it out of its plastic casing, pressed a button to start it and placed it under Francis' tongue. Seeing that he was all set, he turned to watch the Briton move about the room.

Arthur, impervious to the hidden glances, went about the space to seem as though he was fixing up the room. In reality, he was simply trying not to show how taxed he had become from all the movement. He was by no means as nearly in a bad spot as Francis was, but the incident had left him bereft of more than a bit of his usual reserves of strength. He opened the blinds feeling his heartbeat even out and the need to gulp at the air slowly receding. He looked out of the window, happy to have the late afternoon sunlight spilling into the room and appreciated the glow of warmth for a moment.

Francis gazed at England with worried eyes. He had known him long enough to tell that he was out of breath, and doing a poor job of hiding it, at least from him. Arthur needed to rest, and he couldn't very well do that when he had to constantly run around caring for him. He shifted the thermometer around in his mouth, earning a disapproving look from Matthew. Reluctantly, he held his tongue, though his gaze did not leave the back of Arthur's straw colored locks.

Feeling the weight of a gaze, Arthur turned his tan face towards the bed to see Francis staring at him. "What?" he asked.

France frowned at him, the only method he could voice his dislike for his actions. He was startled out of it as his brooding as the thermometer started beeping loudly at him. It was soon pulled from his mouth by Matthew's gentle hands, the device leaving an odd feeling underneath the base of his tongue. His face grimaced as he tried to push the feeling away.

Canada brought the device up to his eyes, adjusting his glasses as he tried to view the digital readout. His brow furrowed at the number, unhappy with the result. "Hmm…you're running a slight fever," he muttered. _Well that explains why his face is so flush_, he thought to himself.

Arthur's mind shut down for all of two seconds before it rebooted yelling thousands of questions. _Wait,_ he thought panicked_, what's wrong? Does he have an infection? Is he sick again? Did something change because of his transfer here?_ And then the most appalling thought of all, _Could this be my fault?_ He found his voice crammed inside his heart and dragged it out slowly to form the pitiful sounding words, "Is it anything we should worry about?"

Alfred waved his hand dismissively. "Nah, nurse said it would be normal. As long as it doesn't go over 101, he's good."

England quickly did the conversion in his mind. _Let's see…38.4 C?_ He turned to Alfred, relived it wasn't anything abnormal, "That's good. Did she say anything else?"

"Yeah, I'll write you a list if you want." He gave a shrug with his broad shoulders. "Where's your paper and pen?"

"In my office. I'll be right back." Arthur left the room and crossed the hall. The door opened with a click and he walked briskly over to an oak desk in the back of the room. He tore a paper away from the ledger on the tabletop and pulled a pen from a small cup. He closed the door and returned to the room, offering Alfred the utensils.

"Right then." He leaned against a bureau and wrote down all the nurse had said in his cursive scrawl.

Canada, who had busied himself with setting up the prescription bottles in the order they had to be taken, glanced back at his older brother. "Remember to write down what they said about the spasms…like the one he had on the stairs," he called. He turned back to the bottles after America had given him a little nod.

Arthur nodded, his gaze dropping to the floor. "Thank you", he muttered, "I hadn't realized he'd mentioned all of this." He felt terrible inside. He was supposed to take care of Francis, and yet he didn't know any of these basic facts.

France gazed at Arthur, sadness in his blue eyes. He shouldn't feel bad, he didn't know. It wasn't his fault. He wished he could make those absinthe eyes lose the look of self-disappointment, and shine again.

Alfred stopped writing, suddenly able to feel the tension in the room, he looked from Matthew and over to Arthur. Clearing his throat, he said awkwardly, "Well, now you know!"

Arthur still didn't look up from the carpet. "Thanks."

Standing up from his kneeling position, Canada brushed off his pant legs and addressed the room. "Then if that's everything, I think it's time to go."

Alfred looked to his brother and down to his wrist where a watch was. He gave a low whistle and looked over to Arthur who had looked up once again. "Yeah, I've got a meeting to get to soon anyway."

Looking between the two blonde brother's, Alfred asked surprised," Already?"

"Yeah." Alfred gave Francis a smile, " I hope you get better soon."

Francis nodded with a small smile of his own, giving America a weak wave. "Thank you, Alfred."

"Please remember what I said and get better soon," Matthew spoke to Francis is his usual soft voice, but his gaze held a power in them that spoke other volumes.

"No need to show us out of the house England, we'll show ourselves," Alfred called from the door, his hand coming up in a lazy wave as he turned his back. "Besides, Matt's just that excited to get to the car!"

Arthur chuckled at seeing Matthew's face pale. "Good luck", he murmured. "And thank you, Alfred. You too Matthew." Alfred's frame disappeared from the door, but the heavy footfalls told that he was quickly flying down the stairs. "Better run to see if you can drive Matthew," Arthur quickly added.

Matthew rushed out of the door, muttering angrily, "He's trying to kill me."

Arthur smiled fondly at the doorframe where the two brother's had left. He looked to Francis noticing the sudden silence at the lack of the younger nations' voices. He cleared his throat and looked everywhere in the room, not sure what to say or do. The awkward silence had caught hold and the nervous fluttering in his stomach was back.

France's stomach filled with butterflies as he glanced down at his lap, before turning to gaze at his slung limb. He debated taking it off, wanting to stretch his stiff arm, do something to distract himself from the stale silence hanging in the air. Francis shifted, trying to make some noise to fight the emptiness of sound, only accomplishing in knocking the cool washcloth from his head. It tumbled to the edge of the bed and he desperately tried to grab it, the motion awkward as he reached with his working arm across his body. Somehow the cloth stayed out of his reach, he was barely able to graze it with his fingertips.

Arthur saw the movement and took a hesitant step forward. "Let me help you with that." He grasped the cloth, gloves becoming damp with the excess water as he replaced it on Francis' forehead and pushed away a strand of hair that had become matted to his skin from the perspiration of the fever.

France looked up at him, embarrassment flashing across his face. "Mer…Thank you, Arthur," he whispered. Frustration and guilt took hold in his chest again as he turned to glare discreetly at his arm. It seemed without Matthew or Alfred present, the effects of Matthew's pep talk had disappeared with them, as he fell back into turmoil.

Arthur could see the steady decent of gloom on Francis' face and wondered what he could do to ease it away. He thought for a moment, the nervousness sending all of his French suddenly awry, "Um…_pas de probleme_."

Francis couldn't help but smile fondly at the attempt, it bringing him out of his guilt momentarily. He sighed, trying to reach the calm he was in only minutes before. If Arthur was willing to try than so was he.

Shifting on the balls of his feet, Arthur gave a tentative smile back, "_Que pensez-vous?"_

France gave a quizzical look, before deciphering his meaning. He nodded in assurance, trying his best to be truthful to the Englishman. "_Améliorez, merci_," he replied softly, unable to help thinking how cute Arthur was when he struggled for words.

Arthur scrambled for as much French as he could, which was strange because on a normal day he was decently fluent at the language. Why was being around Francis alone making him tongue-tied so suddenly? " _Je vois…__ je peux vous... offrir quelque chose?"_

No matter how much it warmed his heart to see England grasp for words, he couldn't let Arthur struggle anymore. "Arthur," he started, glancing off to the side before forcing himself to look the Briton in the eye. "You don't have to speak in French if you do not wish to."

Arthur shook his head. He had to do his best to help Francis and he already could see the tension slipping away with the French, albeit awkward and hesitant. He tried to prove his point, to explain why he was doing it. "Non," he said forcefully, "_Je ne… Je veux vous aider. ....Je tiens a vous…_" He stopped to think over the word he was looking for, it had suddenly escaped his mind and he scrapped for the word until he finally settled on one. _" le plaisir...de mieux_," he ended.

Francis choked on the breath he was taking, eyes going wide as the phrase passed Arthur's lips. His cheeks suddenly grew warm, as a fierce blush took over his face. He focused his attention on the floor to stop any images that might try and make their way into his mind. A small chuckle worked his way up his throat, the first true laugh he had in a long time. He covered his mouth quickly, trying to bury it behind his hand. He cleared his throat with a cough, attempting and failing to fight the nervous smile, which was taking over his face. "_J-je suis __très bien, vraiment_," he assured Arthur, still unable to meet his eye for fear he would laugh again.

Arthur stilled, watching as Francis avoided his eyes, the trace of a smile on his lips. Petrified, he ran through his words to try and understand what he had said that would make the Frenchman laugh. Hadn't he said he was trying to make him feel better? He furrowed his brow as he formed the words on his lips, reciting them silently to make sense of them. And then he stopped, realizing his error.

Oh. Dear. God.

His face flushed to the tips of his ears with a deep red. He felt glued to the floor like a startled rabbit and strange noises fell from his throat as he tried to string together a coherent sentence. He hadn't said he wanted to make him feel better, he had said he wanted to _pleasure_ him. "N-No! I didn't… mean it like that! Well, I did – but not like that…Oh damnit."

France cocked his head slightly at Arthur, still trying to make the smirk disappear from his face. He could still feel the blush on his cheeks, and he hoped he didn't look at red as Arthur did. He felt the heat in his cheeks grow, as he found himself staring at England's lips, watching England bite it nervously. He shook his head slowly, trying to calm himself for Arthur's sake. He obviously wasn't helping the Englishman out, especially if his face continued to redden.

Arthur stopped biting his lip at seeing Francis' smirk and the shake of his head. Now thoroughly mortified, Arthur continued to splutter, feeling his face heat up further. "I mean…Well of course I want you to feel better but not in that sense." He stopped and waved his hands wildly, "not that I'm saying I don't want you to feel better completely…but." His hand covered his eyes. "Like I really want to know…um. Shit."

"It's alright Arthur," France assured, once he was sure he could keep his voice under control. He took a deep breath, trying to calm the color from his face. "I-I understood…what you meant." He tried to make his smile into one of friendly reassurance.

Arthur wondered if he could die right then. That lightning bolt was looking fabulous right at this second. "No! I meant…I don't think you do because…I do like y…" He paused and dropped his burning gaze to the floor, body going limp. "…tea," he finished lamely. He turned on his heel and faced the door. "Tea is good right now. Do you want tea? I think tea is good. Now. Right now."

Francis nodded quickly, wanting to give Arthur a chance to escape and recover from the…mishap. He was sure he needed a moment as well. What a way to start off this arrangement.

Arthur saw the bob of the Frenchman's head from the corner of his eyes, "Right then." He left rather stiffly from the room, face still red as he walked quickly away and down the stairs to the solace of solitude. This was going to be a long, long time.

* * *

I hope you enjoyed it! Please review, the chapters are so long that we usually squeal with glee from seeing every review. I also wanted to thank **Foxyyaoi123** for reviewing every one of our chapters, **Erectile Dysfunction** for the epicness that are your reviews, **Kaimi-Flames** for the awesome gifts and sweet reviews even though we are beating Belarus up a little, **YoakeKaze** for the kind review, **Incurableoptimist24** for letting us know you love it so, And **Alice Misa** for bringing the two of us to 'awwwww' at the much needed pep up. Thank you so much to all our readers!

To come is more drama, more comedy and obviously Francis and Arthur.

*~* Notes: (again, My french is awful (non existent) and it is only due to Kage that it is passible)

_Avez-vous besoin de quelque chose avant de nous quitter_?: Do you need anything before we leave?

_Je crois que je suis très bien: I believe I'm fine_

___cel mal: Not good_

_Etes-vous bien? Devrais-je vous aider?_: Are you alright? should I help you at all?

_Oui, je suppose que je suis encore faible: _Yes, I guess I'm just tired.

_D'accord: _Okay

_Oh mon Dieu, nous allons tous mourir: Oh God, we're all going to die._

_Sien qui conduit n'est pas ce mauvais, est lui?_: His driving is not that bad, is it?

_Il toujours maux. Il n'y a rien à faire_:It always hurts. There is nothing to do.

_Vous allez etre une Amerique imbicille. Pouves-vous ne voyez pas que vous etes le blesser?_:You're being stupid America, can't you see that hurts him?

_pas de probleme:_ It is not a problem (yes, we realize this is not correct, that is the point.)

_Que pensez-vous: How do you feel?_

Je vois...je peux vous... offrir quelque chose?: I see...can I get you anything?

_Non. Je ne. Je veux vous aider...Je tiens a vous... le plaisir...de mieux_.: No. I do. I want to help you. I want to (pleasure) you better.

J_e suis très bien, vraiment: I am fine, really_


	5. Chapter 5

_Hey all! This is going to be the last update for a while since we have finals (^evilness!!!! hisssss^), I'm heading to Germany and Becks is doing doctor stuff. I hope you enjoy this installment, though the lack of reviews made me so sad ;____;. Thank you so much, Yaoifox123 for your constant reviews. Everyone's comments help us know if were heading in the right direction._

_*Chris_Remmey_

_Bonjour mes amis!! Chris you think you have a sad face, I'll show you a sad face! TTT___TTT. So yeah, kinda sad about the absent of reviewing epicness that followed after our first chapter. Thanks to everyone for reading and all but reviews just make it that much more enjoyable. _

_^Kagebecks27^ _

* * *

**The Fading Rose**

**Chapter Five**

Warmth, that was the first thing that France remembered as he was pulled reluctantly away from blissful and actually restful sleep. It was soon burned away, by the pain, which had roused him from slumber. He found himself on his side, left arm draped cautiously across his chest and over the blankets to keep it still. In the course of the night, he had somehow worked a number of pillows behind his back, allowing him some support as he slept. The comforter was wrapped around him, bringing with it security and again, the warmth that currently embraced him. Francis pulled at the comforter, trying to shift even the tiniest bit so he might tumble back into slumber but every movement seemed to aggravate the raw agony steadily growing, as he was pulled further out of the haze of just waking up.

Francis knew what it was, the medication Arthur had given him right before he had fallen asleep the previous night had worn off, allowing the un-pleasurable burn to take hold in his limbs and muscles. He thought wearily of the medication bottle that Matthew had placed on the bedside table, and caused him to turn his head over his shoulder to look for it. The nightstand was empty, a fact spotlighted by the light of the peaking early morning sun as it hinted at the coming of dawn. The memory came to him; Arthur hesitating at the table, before finally taking the bottles of medication and bidding him goodnight. Arthur, he could always call to him and ask for more. He shook his head immediately against the idea, not wanting to wake him and bother him this late…or rather early in the morning. He bit back a groan of frustration as he turned back to rest his head against the pillow, trying to block everything out.

He soon found his mind wondering, an attempt to ignore the pain. As he twitched suddenly, his mind zeroed in on the source of his current torment. That day flew into his memories before he could stop it, the sights and sounds taking over every sense in his body. Despair and loneliness washed over him, drowning him to the point it was hard to breath. These feelings were too recent, all too real; that he didn't need a reminder to remember how they felt. He was still dealing with them, the memory making his eyes brim with stinging tears. He was fighting them back for Arthur, only for Arthur. Arthur, the thought of the name bombarded him with images, one after another after another, zooming past his mind's eye before he could even register them.

"_I can't hold on any longer._" His eyes jutted open, the haunting picture of a frightened and pained England hanging inches away from his doom burned into his sight. Arthur's face paled then distorted before his eyes, blood staining the ashen skin, green eyes closing before becoming nothing more than black holes in a rotting face. Francis jolted upright, crying out shortly as his body screamed in protest, cold sweat covering his skin.

"Non, no, no, no, no," Francis cried, shaking his head between pants of the exertion, his hand finding its way to his shoulder as he leant back against the headboard, head bowing. His hands crept up towards his face, grabbing clumps of once golden hair, his palms digging into his eyes as though he could rub the image away. No, Arthur was all right, he was alive. _"He's alive, but far from alright," _a voice cruelly reminded from inside his head. _"He nearly died because of you."_ Francis nodded, hot tears streaming out from behind his hands. It was true; all this was because of him. He had sent England to the hospital; he had maimed his hands, all because of Francis' stupid actions. "_And to think he was almost better off, but you can't do anything right can you?"_

He felt his body tremble, muscles pulled painfully taunt. "_All you had to do is take one small step off the edge, but no. You had to let him save you, you had to make yourself even more of a burden than you already are."_ Francis had given up trying to argue with the voice, which he knew was nothing but his mind telling him what he was too cowardly to hear. "_Disgraceful!"_ France physically cringed at the word, bile rising in his throat. His stomach turned, kept from emptying only from the lack of substance, he having declined to have much of a dinner, no more than a cup of tea and some bread. The voice silenced as he gave a small sob, and Francis prayed it would leave him be.

France knew he was a broken man, useless to the world as he was now. The whole scene on the rooftop playing over and over, but oddly always felt as if it was skipping something. He tried to calm himself, to take a deep breath and focus. What was he missing, what was his mind not showing him? Slowly forms came back to him, blurry as though through some unfocused camera lens.

_"Francis,"_ a familiar voice sobbing to him in the darkness. Suddenly warmth spread over his lips, as if something soft was pressed against them. They tingled, and he brought a slow finger down to touch them, the ghost kiss still upon them. He remembered a taste in his mouth, comforting and real. Was that…_Angleterre?_ France felt as if something was trembling against his body, clutching and grabbing at fabric that wasn't there.

It all rushed back to him, the kiss, the cries and sobs. Was it all real? He pulled his hands away from his face, letting them fall into his lap as he stared at the foot of his bed. France's face fell with a lack of emotion, eyes half closed as the grief left him, leaving him not knowing what to feel. His eyes widened suddenly as four words floated into his head, four words that…someone had said to him. Arthur had…he had said… '_I still love you.' _Had he really said that or was his mind playing cruel tricks with him? It was so long ago, but it…did it really happen? Had Arthur said he…loved him? His _Angleterre_?

The voice crept back, shattering the happy image in France's mind. _Your Angleterre, hardly. He only said that because he felt sorry for you, only because you were about to end your pathetic life. Do you really think any of the nations care about you? They just didn't want to have to go through the trouble of cleaning up the mess you'd leave behind."_

"Stop it," Francis whispered, head bowing again. "Please just stop it."

"_Pathetic, useless, burden of an old man,"_ the voice called back bitterly. "_If you had any of the old noble man you once were still inside of you, you would end this once and for all!"_

"I said STOP IT," Francis cried out, his voice reaching no higher than a loud whisper. He knew he was merely arguing with himself, but the voice seemed to back down, fading back into the darker part of his mind. He was panting again, accepting the physical pain over the emotional one, which had zapped him of all his strength. He moved his hand to clutch his shoulder, fingers pressing on top of the still healing wound, making jolts of white race from the area. He felt his mind grow heavy with it, vision starting to blur and tilt. Francis slid back underneath the covers, feeling something weep from underneath the bandage but he didn't care. He closed his eyes and let blackness take him, his last thoughts fluttering back to the kiss and those four words. _Was Arthur lying…or did he…did he really mean it, _were Francis' last thoughts before oblivion claimed him.

* * *

Arthur paced by his bedroom door, glancing at the painted white timber every few seconds. His eyes traveled to the glowing green clock by his cold bed, the only source of light in the room. Green eyes had already adjusted to the darkness and he glanced once more at door before making his way to the bed. He sat down at the foot and looked into the dark shadowed corners of the room_. It really wasn't necessary_, he thought dryly to himself_, to check on a man five times while he was asleep_. He looked over to the clock. _3:16._ With a sigh he lay flush against the mattress, staring up to the blackened ceiling. He had checked on Francis as soon as he had gone to sleep, around nine thirty, nearly every half hour until Arthur himself had been ready for bed.

Of course, he had never gone to sleep, but rather paced by the door telling himself that the Frenchman was fine and checked up on him when sane individuals should be asleep. He twisted in the linen sheets on his bed and buried his face. He took a deep breath, letting out hot air that dampened the cloth and blinked while feeling his eyelashes brush against the fabric. He lay still, but found no peace and was soon rolling to his side. The last time he had gone in the man had somehow rolled off any support of the pillows and his arm had nearly been crushed by his own weight. Arthur snorted lightly when he thought of how long it had taken to roll him gently onto his right side again and set the pillows to support his back.

Arthur rolled onto his stomach and let out a frustrated sigh from the lack of sleep. He could feel his eyes burning and the deadened feeling in his limbs craved for the elusive slumber. He pulled on the sheets, pulling over his thin frame and shut his eyes again.

He could feel the weight of Orpheus as he came closer, until an image of a golden haired Frenchman wormed its way into his mind and he snapped his eyes open. Arthur's green eyes stared unseeingly into the shadow-drenched room, eyes only able to pick up the vague shapes of familiar objects that dotted his quarters. Perhaps most brilliantly was his gun, which lay directly in front of the clock's glowing face. He sighed and twisted his body again, this time curled up as he pressed his face against his pillow.

England's mind wandered as he slowly began to unwind. A checklist went off in his head as he made sure that he had done everything necessary for the day. He had finished his paperwork, wrote up that report on unemployment rates for the next summit, turned off the stove, given Francis all of his medicine on time…

Arthur shoved his face into his pillow as his mind rebooted to a full frenzy over Francis. What his thoughts had been churning over was not his current state of health, but what had gone on at the top of the roof less than three weeks ago. The image of Francis standing on the edge, head lifted to the heavens in a bitter defeat, still sent a dark ripple though England's core. The soft patter of rain outside accompanied gloomy thoughts as he recanted the incident's events.

When he had sprinted up those stairs, after by god's grace he had been walking near the building and had seen how uncomfortably close Francis had been to the flimsy railing and had guessed that something was wrong. He had opened the door to the roof to a sight that secretly haunted his thoughts; France on the edge, his hands and the sliver of concrete the only thing that kept him from plummeting to his death. He had been stunned. There had never been an inking in his mind that it would come to this. Not for Francis at least.

Arthur sighed into the pillow and punched it, trying to get comfortable. When he had seen France about to fall to his death, a small part of his heart had suddenly shattered, like a glass prism turned to dust. That second time he had tried to join the dead, England had acted, too afraid to think of life without the man who had simply always been there. Arthur was old, but Francis had been around longer than he had. In a life full of brittle mortal relations and loves, to have one constant solid foundation had been something he had secretly thanked everyday for. Arthur shoved his face back into the pillow as he remembered the close encounter with death that he had come against. For a second, when he had fallen over the edge, he had thought that was it, that he had traded spots with Francis for a ticket for death. By a miracle he had caught hold to the building and Francis had pulled him back to safety. Something he had a nagging feeling he still hadn't expressed his thanks for properly.

It was why every time the man became saddened at seeing the scar that now puckered his pale skin, he became infuriated. He let out a small yell into his pillow and then flipped over to look once more at the black ceiling. The scar proved two things. He had saved Francis and Francis had saved him.

Arthur looked back at the door and wondered if he should check on Francis again. He wasn't sure if he needed the medicine again or not, since he wasn't sure how bad the pain was. He curled into himself tightly and closed his eyes. Francis would call him if he needed him, right? England was here for him, to help him get better though a time he knew only too well was perhaps the most akin to Hell for any man.

He took another deep breath hoping to clear his mind of the dark thoughts that began to seep into him. Rather he tried to think of nothing. His mind had other plans of course. The vivid details of their shared kiss and the confession of love made his face heat up greatly. It had been heat of the moment, right? The man really couldn't love him. It was impossible.

England clenched his teeth as he thought further of the passionate moment that had occurred. Did Arthur love Francis? Yes, painfully so. He hadn't lied when he had whispered that should Francis die, he would follow. He didn't think he could handle the absences of his greatest and dearest friend. The taste of the kiss in his mind set his lips afire and he rolled over onto his side on the bed. It sent a warmth deep inside and he curled up tighter into his body. It was all heat of the moment, he finally decided–because to love someone and to _love_ someone were two different things. Sure, there was plenty to lust over. There was enough in that man's smile to create a year's worth of fantasies for goodness sake! But was it love? Really love? Arthur wasn't sure and he rolled onto his back with a deep groan reverberating slowly from his throat before he finally drifted off into a feather light sleep.

* * *

Arthur had awoken that morning in a particular bad mood. It felt as though a cold was starting to work its way into him and his body felt as though he had landed from an airplane onto the world's most sharp and bumpy rocks. It had been from all the twisting he had done last night and he sighed before shoving a piece of bread into his mouth as he picked up the tray. He looked at the items once more before beginning to ascend the stairs to make his way to Francis' room. The lukewarm tea sloshed gently in the cup as he came nearer to the room and he eyed it warily to make sure it didn't spill onto the slice of toast on the plate next to it. He finally came to the top stair, unhappy that he was still breathing heavier than he would have liked. However, he wiped it away as he prepared to enter Francis' room. The door was partly open from Arthur's midnight wanderings and he toed the door open silently. His mouth opened to announce his arrival but the sight before him made the words vaporize.

Francis was lying in the bed, his face mostly turned to the window facing the morning sun. Golden rays of light seeped though the glass panes and illuminated both his hair and skin. His hair was disheveled and lay against the pillow in all directions, the light showing glimmers of gold. Arthur also noticed how the sun gave his pale skin so much more vitality; it defined his features with shadow and highlighted exposed skin, including the pale expanse of stomach that had become unveiled by twisted sheets. It was Francis' face though that held the most beauty. He had turned to grimace at the ceiling, not noticing his admirer, a grimace painted on his lips. His eyes were lightly rimmed red with exhaustion, only highlighting the blue tones of his eyes. It was a tragic beauty that only a master painter could ever hope to capture and Arthur allowed himself another few seconds to ingrain the sight into his mind. The moment passed quickly as Arthur's mind realized why he was exhausted and grimacing. He was in pain and apparently had decided to deal with it on his own. Again.

He cleared his throat and walked slowly into the room. "Good morning Francis."

Francis started slightly at the mention of his name, turning his eyes to look at Arthur. His skin was healthy, a rich tan that the light played across delicately, making it seem as if he was glowing. He could see a trace of a smile on his sculpted lips, making his stomach suddenly feel warm. His eyes however, they looked tired, as if he hadn't gotten enough sleep last night. The green still seemed to shine though, as if some beacon of a happy memory behind them. "G-good morning, A-Arthur," he replied, his voice dry after last night, cracking as a familiar pain roared at him.

Arthur narrowed his eyes at the Frenchman. "Are you feeling alright?" he asked knowing full well what the answer was.

Moving slowly, almost tediously, France nodded his head before settling against the bed again. He lay perfectly still, hoping to hide any sign of pain he was in, not wanting to upset England. "J-just a lit-tle stiff, i-is all," he mumbled out, thinking about attempting a smile but quickly deciding against it as speaking brought unwanted discomfort.

Arthur put the tray down on the side table with a loud clatter. "You're a piss poor liar Francis," he muttered and turned flashing eyes to the man. He took a deep breath and then looked to the plastic pill bottle on the tray. "You need the medicine again." He shook the pills out with a soft clatter into his palm and returned the unneeded pills back into the orange bottle. "You could have called me," he said with a grumble and handed off the blue pills.

Francis eyed the pills, arm trembling as he reached out to take them. "I didn't wish to wak…I didn't want to bother you," he mumbled, staring at the little blue tablets.

Arthur gave another soft growl, more to himself though. "I was up half the night anyway." He turned and handed over a glass of water, "Here."

Francis didn't reach for the water right away, instead clasping his hands tightly around the pills as he tried to sit up. His shoulder, no his entire body was still rather upset with him, after the stress he had put it through earlier that morning. He flinched and grunted as he tried to shift his still tense muscles.

With a small sigh, Arthur helped him to sit up slowly and waited for him to take the glass and swallow his medicine. "You can't mess with medicine, Francis," Arthur berated. "Whether I'm awake or not doesn't matter. You need to tell me when it wears off so I can give you another dosage." He folded his arms and felt like a parent telling his child to eat their vegetables.

France closed his eyes and nodded, revealing as the cool liquid soothed his dry throat. He quickly drained the glass, collapsing against the pillows again, his back no longer able to keep him upright. He opened his eyes and his gaze fell into his lap. "I'm sorry Arthur."

Arthur gave another sigh and took the used glass away. "Just…" he paused and tilted his head while closing his eyes for a moment. "There's no need for you to be in pain, right?" He opened his eyes and gave a smile stuck somewhere between a plead and sadness. He noticed the look of pain that still marred his face and tentatively began to stroke at Francis' hair. "The medicine should kick in rather soon."

Again, Francis nodded, closing his eyes as Arthur's hand touched his head, coaxing a deep sigh from him. It was slow, and controlled, until the gently touched pulled a small whimper from his throat, eyes squeezing against a sudden dull throb of pain. "T-thank you…Arthur," he whispered hoarsely, unknowingly leaning into the touch.

Arthur looked down and then away to the wall, a flush crossing over his face quickly. "It's nothing," he muttered softly.

France turned to look at him, eyes immediately locking onto the flush of color running across Arthur's cheeks. His heart leapt, fluttering at the innocent look. He shook his head slightly, closing blue eyes once again as he waited for the blissful medication to take effect. "No," he whispered. "It really isn't."

England looked back to him, his eyes glinting with the morning sunlight and highlighting the blush creeping on his cheeks. He gave Francis an odd look. "If you say so." He paused and fingered one of the locks of golden hair, contemplating it silently. "We should probably wash your hair this morning," he finally said aloud.

Francis started at the random suggestion, turning to look into Arthur's face, finding it completely serious. "…It is-n't…necessary Arthur," he chirped quickly, not wanting to put Arthur out more than he already was. Sure he didn't like not having his hair clean, it was one of his pet peeves actually– but he had grown accustomed to it, almost to the point it was bearable. He could miss a few more days, till he could care for himself again.

"I can do it in the sink," Arthur countered, pulling his hand away from the strands of hair that had become entwined in his gloved fingers. "Besides," he added, "it'll probably make you feel better."

France nodded mentally at that, the feeling of clean hair, of having fingers massage his scalp, was something he did enjoy. But this was Arthur. He felt heat touch his cheeks. Would it be awkward to have the man he…loved touch him like that? Well not that way but…but… "R-really Arthur…you don't…"

England moved the tray to the foot of the bed and turned to stare into Francis' eyes. " Look," he said with a small roll of his eyes, "not to sound crass, but I'm not asking you to stand naked in the tub while I wash your hair." A sudden image of wet skin, long bare legs with trails of soapsuds filled his mind and he quickly shook his head to erase the image like an etch-a-sketch. "It's not that big of a deal," he said though his voice suddenly sounded rougher. "Hairdressers do it to strangers everyday right? It's not something to get worked up over."

France flushed as a mental image bombarded him, heat sinking into his stomach. He could feel the medication kicking in, easing back all the physical pain. "...Al-alright...Arthur," he replied, nodding almost to himself.

Arthur nodded. "Good." He pulled off his good hand's glove and reached out to Francis' cheek. It felt warmer than it should have and he moved it to his forehead, which was cooler in comparison. He pulled back, placing his glove back on easily. "Hmmm, you're a little warm," he admitted aloud, "though I think the fever went down. He leaned over to grab the thermometer on the nightstand and pulled it from its case. It gave a small beep to signal it had turned on. "I think we should have another look." He held the thermometer out and placed it under Francis' tongue.

Francis frowned but did as Arthur instructed. He didn't like the weird feeling the metal tip left in the underneath of his tongue or the fact that even the slightest shift of the instrument could cause it to take longer to get a reading. He just did not find it pleasant.

Arthur had placed the medicine on the nightstand incase it was needed for later and came back to his bedside when he heard the small timer go off. He sat down on the edge of the bed and took the thermometer. "Let's see…37.2 C." He paused and frowned, flicking the thermometer in the air from habit of the old mercury models. "Only a very slight fever," he informed his guest and stood up from the bed. "It's probably from not taking the medicine though, so I don't think it's anything to worry over."

France nodded, turning his face away from Arthur, finding their way to his hands as he knotted them in the comforter.

England turned slightly, placing the thermometer back in its case and back onto the tabletop. "If the medicine has kicked in, I could wash your hair now. Or do you want to try and eat something first?"

Francis shifted nervously, silently pleased when it didn't bring up an overwhelming wave of pain. He knew he was trying to stall, to keep them as far away from the bathroom as possible. His stomach made itself known, growling as it hunted for food. France leaned forward a little, trying to glance at the tray Arthur had brought him, but he couldn't see.

He lifted up the tray for Francis to see. "It's just lukewarm tea, applesauce and a slice of toast."

He nodded, glancing at the food then at his stomach. "I-i g-guess I should t-try eating first," he said, unsure of how well it would go and stay down.

Arthur moved the tray to Francis' lap, making sure not to slosh the tea, and waited to make sure he was all set. When the tray was stable and Francis was sitting up enough, he backed away, hand resting on the nape of his neck as he looked on awkwardly. "Here you go."

"T-thank you," he said with a small smile, his hand slowly moving to the cup of tea, bringing it up to his lips and taking a delicate sip. It was neither too weak, nor too strong, a balance that Arthur had always been able to bring to his tea.

Standing by the door, Arthur gave a nod seeing Francis starting to eat, or at least drink something and walked out to the hallway to prepare the bathroom. He went down the stairs; grabbing the remnants of an apple he had been cutting earlier and popped it into his mouth as he searched for a proper chair. He finally settled onto the wooden one from his kitchen table and lifted it up, still chewing on the pulp and finally swallowing. He held it out before him, careful not to nick the walls as he walked back to the stairs and hoisted it higher so he could see the steps. He walked up carefully and bypassed France's room when he got to the top. Instead, he went directly to the bathroom and began to get it prepared.

Francis noticed his absence at once, moving to glare at the food in front of him. He slowly brought the toast to his lips, his stomach turning at first bite. With a sigh, he forced another, not wanting the food to go to waste but knowing he wouldn't possibly be able to finish it at all. He moved onto the applesauce, hoping he would have a better chance with that. He had manage to eat a little more than half, before his body decided it had enough, making even the sight of food make him queasy. He turned to glaring at it once more, wishing he could just make the food disappear.

Arthur came back to the room soon after, his brow quirked at the sight of the nibbled food. "Can't eat any more?" he asked from the doorway.

France glanced up at Arthur, not having heard him come into the room. He looked down at tray again while giving the smallest shake of his head. Shame crept up on Francis' face, at wasting Arthur's food, unable to take in much and sometimes not able to keep it down.

Arthur gave a shrug and pulled the tray away when he came to Francis' bedside, happy to see that he at least had finished up the tea. "It's fine," he assured him, catching sight of the shame filled glance and tense body language. "It's probably the medicine upsetting your stomach and whatnot."

With a sigh, France turned to gaze out the window. The sun had risen well above the tops of the nearby houses, and he could hear birds chirping in the trees.

Placing the tray carrying the half eaten food on the dresser top with a promise to bring it downstairs later, Arthur tried to strike up some conversation. "It's supposed to rain later today."

France nodded, a sad smile spreading across his lips, his eyes gazing thoughtfully at the sky. "I used to like the rain," Francis stated sadly, to no one in particular.

Arthur twisted his torso around to look over at the Frenchman. "Why used to?" he asked, confusion and interest tingeing his voice.

He looked back at Arthur, forgetting momentarily that he was in the room. Francis took a deep breath, turning his gaze towards the window though not really seeing anything. "I liked it because makes things so clean, washed away all the blood, put out all the fires, almost as if nature was giving us a chance to start over," he paused, letting out a sigh as he glanced down at his lap. Images of the battles, burned down buildings, the cries of the wounded and the dying swarmed angrily in his head. "But it was just an illusion, a lie I suppose. Even after the blood goes away and the field is brought back to a healthy green, the lives lost are still…gone."

Arthur looked to the distant blue eyes and looked out the window, his hand resting against his chin as he thought of something to say. "Nothing can bring back life after it's gone, not even the most powerful magic." He fixed one of the curtains, letting more light into the room. "But... without rain, I guess there'd be no way to start over." He turned back to Francis and gave the smallest of smiles. "It's a little early to be so philosophical, wouldn't you say?" he asked.

Francis gave a small, sad chuckle as he looked up at Arthur, his eyes and face suddenly empty of all emotion. "I suppose it is," he stated evenly, continuing to stare up into the absinthe eyes before him. A few moments passed before he turned to gaze back out the window, watching as dark clouds began to creep across the horizon sky, swallowing the light blue of the morning. "The rain is still beautiful," his voice came softly, a tiny hint of sadness working its way into the blank tone.

Arthur's eyes were trained on Francis. "It is." He paused, not moving as he studied the man closely. Though he was getting better physically, Arthur knew that he may not be getting better by any means mentally. Suicide was a bitter and vile thing, it was an act of desperation to free yourself from all the hurt that gnawed at your soul until there was nothing left. He curled and relaxed his fingers in worry as he watched Francis' blank face staring out to the morning sky. There was something in his tone that was unsettling to the Englishman and he began to bite the inside of his cheek lightly. Depression, at least there was something to feel even if it was negative and hurt. Apathy– when you felt nothing, was more dangerous than anything. He looked towards the hallway, chewing internally over the thought. "If you feel up to it, maybe we should wash your hair now?"

Arthur's voice broke through to his deep thinking and his efforts to just push everything away. He had gotten so close to feeling nothing, no pain or sadness, just nothing. Yet somehow, Arthur voice got through. Francis felt nervous again, hesitating before he looked up at the other nation, bobbing his head stiffly while trying to keep his face blank and eyes empty. "S-sure." He could go back to feeling nothing, right? Its not like feeling anything made life better, it only made it hurt worse…right?

_That same look again_, Arthur thought, unease in his stomach. Though he noticed as soon as he began to talk a flicker of light came back to the other man's eyes. "Do you need help getting up?"

Francis fidgeted unintentionally, the nervousness not going away no matter how much he tried to push it back. Matthew's voice suddenly made his way into his head. He welcomed it, anything to keep his own dark voice away. '_I__f you tell him, he'll be able to help you, and-and he won't worry so much__.'_ He looked back at Arthur; he felt his body start to tremble. "Y-yes," he whispered, the words heavy and thick in his throat. "I-I think s-so." He was never one to ask for help, and to ask it of England, well it scared him more than it probably should. Fear added to the nervousness, fortifying itself against his efforts to feel…well not to feel.

Arthur stopped moving and glanced back at the Frenchman. Had he…had he just asked for help? Out loud without anyone prodding him to do so? England walked closer to the bed and stopped a few feet away. "A-Alright then," he murmured and slid his hand gently behind his back to help him up more and pushed some of the covers away. Through combined effort, they managed to get Francis' legs over the bed's edge. "Ready to stand?" England asked as he waited next to him.

France nodded slowly, dryly thinking how much easier it was to move when he didn't stress himself first. Maybe if he just let England help him from the beginning...but how would he be able to tell if he was getting any better. Would he be this weak forever?

Alright, up in two then. One…two…" He helped France stand by gently linking his arm with his and snaking his arm to the other side of his waist. Once he was fully standing, he pulled Francis' arm around his shoulder. He looked to the Frenchman's left arm, hanging limply without the sling they had agreed to remove last night. Green eyes turned up slightly. "Dizzy at all?"

The movement made Francis' head spin, tilting the world around him. He distantly heard Arthur's question, and nodded slowly. Taking deep breath after deep breath, he waited until the lightheadedness subsided.

"We'll take it slow then," he said kindly, giving him a small nudge to start moving slowly to the door. Arthur watched the floor to make sure they wouldn't trip, shifting subtly to hold more of Francis weight. They made their way out, and to the adjacent bathroom only a few more feet away from the guest room.

France nodded, hesitantly leaning some of his weight onto Arthur as his legs trembled. It was a weird feeling, he mused silently, being led around. He wasn't used to it, usually taking off in his own direction regardless of whether people followed him. It was...kind of relaxing, not having to worry about where he was going, or how he was going to get there. He was always too...proud. He tripped slightly as he passed through the doorway into the hall, face heating as he felt England hold him tighter. Damn, why was all this so hard?

Arthur toed open the bathroom door, not fully trusting Francis to stand on his own. The timber swung open, revealing a small white bathroom with his kitchen chair in front of the sink. He led him to the chair, helping him to sit down.

Francis sunk into the chair, glancing around, the nervousness and fear taking root in his stomach again. This room was so...intimate, not being overly big so England was never that far away from him. The walls seemed to be getting closer, closing in as Arthur released him.

Seeing the nervous look on Francis' face and the flicker of his eyes, Arthur couldn't help but let a small smirk besmirch his lips. "I promise I'm not going to do anything other than wash your hair." He left the door open and pulled out a towel from the shelf for after.

A weak empty chuckle left France's lips, echoing eerily in the small room. "Most would expect me to be saying that," he whispered hoarsely, his eyes finding their way down to his lap, his right hand moving to cradle his left arm. He plucked at the sweatpants absentmindedly, trying to take his mind off of what was happening.

Arthur hummed absentmindedly. "Hm. Maybe so." He pressed his hand against the blonde's shoulder, applying only a breath of weight. "Here, lean against the sink." He removed his hand to open the tap and looked on happily at the porcelain as water gurgled happily from the spout.

With a tiny sigh, Francis did as he was told, leaning back against the sink, neck cushioned as Arthur placed a folded towel behind him. His hand continued to fidget, the only visible sign that he was upset. His face and eyes were still that controlled blank. In the previous months before the...incident, he had become a master at masking his face with false emotions. He hadn't really thought about just not showing any. He didn't think any one would have noticed either way. It was just easier.

Arthur sighed, shifting away from the blank look on Francis' face and walked over to the shower to snatch at a dark blue bottle. His shoulders slumped lightly as he remembered his gloves. He glanced at the white fabric encasing his hand and hiding his scar. He hesitated, then pulled them off fluidly and stuffed them into his pocket. Turning, he walked back to the sink while opening the bottle with a soft 'snick'. He took his post, leaving the open bottle on the small ledge above the sink and started to wet down Francis' hair.

"I wouldn't." The words came from Francis' mouth before he could stop them, heart jumping as he realized what he had just said. No, this would bring too many emotions up, he wouldn't be able to push them all down. He prayed that his slip up had gone unheard.

Arthur turned his eyes to Francis and then back to the sink, rinsing the hair and making sure all of it had become wet. "I'm sorry?"

Francis frowned slightly. Apparently he hadn't been that lucky. "I-I wouldn't," the voice coming again, stronger than before. What was he doing? Why couldn't he stop it? He closed his eyes, as he felt the warm water reach his scalp. "I-I wouldn't take...advantage of you," he whispered, flinching as he heard a twinge of sadness somehow work its way in. "I-I couldn't."

The first thought that went though Arthur's mind was a harsh, _yeah right_. He flinched as soon as the thought had echoed in his mind, knowing that it wasn't true. Sure, he had wandering hands sometimes and was a little more than just friendly with most people, but he had never taken advantage of anyone. Not even when Arthur had been past any coherent thought when drinking, nothing more than teasing had passed between them. Always, 'no' and that was it. Arthur gave a tainted smile back, though he knew Francis couldn't see it. He threaded his fingers through the knots that had begun to form and was as gentle as he could be. "I know," he finally said aloud.

France flinched as Arthur's fingers grazed his scalp, muscles relaxing as he bent over and brought with it his calming scent. "Y-you...do?" France question, once more emotion breaking out from his voice, making it part way to his face. Disbelief, that was the emotion. Was Arthur being...serious?

Arthur snorted lightly, "I've been drunk around you enough times to know."

His eyelids fell, Francis' face retuning to the blanked calm. "Others don't think so," he muttered. He knew what the others thought about him, how gross and

perverted he was. How disgusting.

Arthur pulled his hands away, hands dripping with water and he grabbed the bottle and squeezed an acceptable amount of shampoo into his hands. He lathered quickly and turned off the tap with the back of his wrist. He grabbed Francis' hair, working the soap into the strands and scalp. "It probably didn't help the fact that you were groping them in broad daylight," Arthur said bluntly. He sighed looking up to the mirror and then back down to the golden hair he was cleaning. "Besides, does it matter what they think?"

The older nation felt his body sag, images whipping through his head. He couldn't help it, his culture did not prize, what was it, personal space. It was not strange for people to be touching each other, to hold hands or simply hug even if nothing romantic was going on between them. It had started off as a joke with the other nations, touching them in a way that made them uncomfortable but it always left him feeling...dirty afterwards. Later, it was just a way to get by, to make him feel something, anything.

Arthur paused, noticing the descent of melancholy. "Besides", he continued as he turned the water back on and began to rinse the suds away, " half of them think I'm insane." If the jeers about conversing with the Fay or unicorns and such were anything to go by. He bristled lightly at the thought and began to speak once more. "You should only care about those who matter most to you."

France scoffed in his head, like he had anyone like that. Well, anyone who felt the same way. _Arthur said he did,_ he thought suddenly, immediately pushing the thought away. No, that had been in the heat of the moment, a false statement. There was no way that England could fall for a man like him. "I suppose," his voice in that same monotone.

Brushing away at a lock of his own hair, England frowned with the realization he hadn't grabbed the conditioner earlier. He turned the water off for a moment and flicked the excess water off. "Stay still for a second," Arthur demanded and walked around France to reach the pale bottle of conditioner. He glanced at Francis seeing him fidget with his hand again and walked back carefully. "So you have a flouncy reputation." Arthur began to cover his hands with the conditioner before going back to Francis' hair. "So what? It could be worse."

"H-how is th-at?" he whispered back, voice cracking softly. He bit his tongue, chastising himself for the slip up.

Hand's stilling, Arthur looked up in thought. "Well," he started slowly, "you could be like Ivan."

Francis paused, thinking about the crazy Russian. At least people feared him, and cared what he was doing or said. "...At...at least people respect him," he muttered, his blank mask slowly chipping away.

Like another puzzle piece finally fitting to a slowly formed picture, the Britton closed his eyes as he continued to work the conditioner in. "Who says no one respects you?"

_Everyone_ was what France's wanted to whisper. Instead he held his tongue, closing his eyes and letting the silence hang in the air. No one respected him, because no one liked him. Not that he could blame them, there wasn't much to like.

"You are respectable." Arthur said to the silence. "Aggravating at times, yes. But who isn't?" He fell into silence too, but not before adding softly, "I respect you at least."

France flinched again as England said the words. Was…was he lying again? Francis' sighed, trying to calm himself. "I-If y-you say so..."

"I do say so." The water was turned back on and Arthur watched as the bubbles floated down the drain as he combed his fingers though and poured water over all of the morning sun colored hair. He could feel the gloom surrounding them and tried to use his words to his advantage. "You have a strong economy, " he began, watching Francis' face carefully. "You say important things at the meetings, you try to include the other nations." He paused tacking on a sour, "even if your tactics are indecent." Arthur ran his finger though again, making sure he had rid all of the conditioner. "You know when people are hurt and how to avoid confrontations that would be disastrous for us." Arthur straightened his back, shutting off the tap and reaching for a towel. "You love your people and you place friendships highly. You are trustworthy and dependable. What, pray tell, is there not to respect?"

"I am useless." He said it evenly, as Germany did, making it sound like the fact that it was.

Arthur let out a huff of frustration, unfolding the towel and narrowing grass colored eyes. "You are not."

"YES, yes I am!" he cried suddenly, his carefully placed mask shattering. The words just seemed to flow out of him, seeking release from the dark abscess of his mind that he thought he had locked them away. "What good is loving your people when you can't defend them! What good am I to them, if I can do nothing but sit by when they're in danger?"

"You can sit up now."

France did as he was told, lifting his dripping hair from the sink and sitting upright, ignoring the cool water that ran down his back and into his face. Finally, Arthur seemed to agree with him.

The towel went over Francis' face as Arthur began to slowly rub and squeeze the water away. His own face was hard as he found himself in between anger and despair. "We can't protect them from everything. It's not possible."

France was thankful for the darkness, the towel hiding Arthur from his view. It was his fault he was saying all this. If it weren't for him, his thoughts would still be his own. "But I can't protect them from anything," he muttered weakly.

"But you have a people who can protect themselves." He grimaced as thoughts traveled back to World War II. Arthur continued to gently rub at the wet hair. "Even when Paris was occupied, your people had a strong will and weren't broken."

He...he remembered. Throughout his...occupation, he could feel it–the strength of his people, their determination and fighting spirit. A small smile pulled at his lips. A sliver of pride relaxing his taunt muscles, head bowing slightly.

England pulled at the towel a little, revealing a single sky blue eye and a wave of wet hair. "That's something to be proud of, isn't it?" he asked.

France hesitated, nodding slowly. "I-I s-suppose." His blue eyes dulled as he fell into deep thought. He was proud of his people – that much would never change. They were the ones he wanted to protect, to make sure they could live and enjoy life. He would gladly give his, well, his everything for them. Anything they asked of him, he would do.

Arthur bent down to give one last rub, a little playfully with a smile that lit up his face. "It is, Francis."

Francis tilted his head up to look up into Arthur's absinthe eyes, a curtain of hair blocking one of his own blue orbs. Warmth covered his cheeks, settling pleasantly in his stomach as he gazed into the glowing face. He felt something else creep into his eyes, something bright and warm and comforting. It was small, but it was there.

Arthur could feel a haze of building want and attraction build up in him slowly as he looked down where Francis looked up from between strands of hair, framing his angular face and eyes. The blue shined with the most spark of life he had seen in a long time and it sent his heart shuddering. Echoes of his night thinking about the scene on the roof quickly swept though and bringing his hand to cup Francis' cheek, he closed the distance between them and locked lips. It was a gentle caress that sent sparks along his own lips and stoked the embers in his chest.

Francis felt his eyes widen, surprised by the sudden presents in front of him, the warmth being breathed inside of him. His lips were tingling, steadily spreading throughout the rest of his body. A primal urge took over, as he closed his eyes, lips moving to respond. Their lips moved together, sending jolts of pleasure over his body, down to his fingertips.

One hand found itself on Francis' leg, his other entwined with the long damp locks as he slowed the kiss, a melding of tongues that left Arthur breathless and sent a trail of passion deeper and lower inside him. He gave a small moan, holding onto the other man tightly and glowing from the motions they were producing.

Arthur's moan stirred something deep with in him, a hunger that he hadn't felt for years. France pressed into the kiss, his tongue tracing around Arthur's mouth, seeking willing entrance and submission. Within a moment of compliance, his tongue dove in, exploring and taste every inch of Arthur's mouth. He moved his right hand, twisting and clamping some wheat colored hair between his fingers. Francis could feel Arthur lean into his touch, feeding his hunger and want and need.

Francis broke away suddenly, whipping his head side to side. Something about this felt so right, like he needed it so much, but Arthur wasn't his. It was wrong, all of this wasn't real. "Non...no...it's not...no!" he cried, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to shove away the warmth and passion.

Arthur stopped and opened his eyes as soon as he heard 'no'. The simple word sent what felt like a bucket of ice over him and he stared with half lidded eyes from the residue of the passion as Francis backed away. He untangled himself from him, feeling hurt. He was breathing heavily still, "Why?"

Francis continued to shake his head. This wasn't right. "Th-this isn't really, this isn't...I...I don't deserve...I can't..." he stammered, his head stilling and locking onto the floor. His hands snaked up to his head, clenching his hair tightly. His head was pounding as he tried to wrap his head around what just happened. Arthur had kissed him. Again. It was amazing, but he shouldn't be feeling like this. He was worthless, useless, a burden. He'd only cause Arthur pain. Francis flinched as his head throbbed, feeling as if it was going to explode.

The words sent a pain into Arthur and he looked away from him. _I knew I shouldn't have….Stupid!_ Arthur clenched his fist tightly. Francis wasn't the only one who could mask his emotions, though with Arthur hurt always and rapidly turned to anger. "Don't deserve what?" he grit out. _Me_? "Why are you…?" he stopped at a loss for words.

Francis was panting now, panic and confusion taking over his body as he began to shake. His eyes opened, eyes stinging as his eyes watered in frustration. Why couldn't England just leave it alone?! "P-please...don't," he begged, his tone pathetic even to his own ears. What good was he to anyone? "I don't deserve...this...it's my fault..." he gasped out.

Seeing the tears quelled Arthur's anger, but hearing him still blaming himself redirected the rage to himself. It was obvious he wasn't doing anything right, and it was only reinforced by the fact that he had seen so many signs of apathy on the other man's face all morning. He felt sick as another thought clamored into his whirling thoughts. "Damn it, I understand if you don't like me," he paused throwing his hands to the heavens, "but stop making excuses! What the **Hell** is your fault?"

"NO! It's not that I don't...not because I don't like you," he spewed out quickly. How could he make Arthur understand? He waited until Arthur put his hands down before shakily raising his hand to gently grasp his right wrist. He began shaking his head again, tears dripping from closed eyes. "This...all of this..." Francis paused, before slowly and hesitantly rubbing his thumb over the raised scar. "I don't deserve...you."

The words struck a cord and Arthur looked down, green eyes still hard, though they were softer from seconds ago. "It's just a scar Francis. I have many more." He fell into silence and knelt down to Francis' level, pulling the reminder of the rooftop away and under his palm. "Why don't you deserve…" he struggled to spit out the word, "me?" He had to know. If it was an attempt to push Arthur away, a euphemism for 'I don't like you', then he would leave the man alone–shove all the feelings that were starting to show face into a box and lock it away for good.

"You're noble...powerful," France muttered, turning his head away, unable to bring himself to look England in the eye. "I'm...u-useless, a-a burden..." His body stiffened, muscles regaining the agonizing tightness. He felt cool water drip into his eyes, blending with his tears, hidden behind a curtain of golden hair.

_No, I'm really not_, Arthur thought sourly. He felt his lips turn downwards and another wave of anger filled him. "God, why?" he asked hand reaching out to remove tears, but he retracted it quickly. "Why do you keep thinking like that?" His voice raised in frustration, "You are not useless and you were never a burden!"

France's body just gave in, seeming to deflate and sag in the chair, limbs hanging useless, face almost completely covered by hair. "You-you wouldn't...don't know...wouldn't understand," he muttered softly, shaking his head softly.

Arthur stiffened, his eyes closing slightly as he stared at the ground through the haze of his lashes. His hands closed, nails biting into his palms as a sound of lapping water ghosted though dark and locked memories. For a moment, the darkness caught him, but a shifting from Francis brought him away from the depressing thoughts. He looked up to his face. "I do," he said. _Fuck, I absolutely know_, Arthur thought bitterly.

_How could he possibly know,_ Francis mused, his eyes slowly moving to look Arthur in the face, hesitantly locking on grass colored eyes. They were dark, lost in thought as if held at bay by some horrible memory. "H-how?" he asked before he could stop himself. Something inside of him knew, but he couldn't remember. What on earth was Arthur talking about?

He could have clamped his hands to his head in frustration. "Because I tried to off myself once!" Arthur's chest heaved, but no sound came out and he went cold at the realization he had actually yelled the words, rather than think them to himself. Some part began to shut down in defense and his features started to automatically school themselves to be expressionless.

France felts his eyes jump wide, his breath catching in his throat. His hands started shaking. _A-angleterre had tried to kill himself_, he cried in his head, his stomach rolling at the realization. The mask that covered England's face was too cold, too empty. Why hadn't he realized, how couldn't not have know? Something crept up into his throat; he felt concern twisting his features as he gasped out, "W-what…when?"

It was an automatic response, "It's in the past. It doesn't matter." He turned his face away and he could have laughed at how their roles had suddenly seemed to be swapped.

"A-arthur," he whispered, his voice holding a pleading tone. Why hadn't Arthur told him? Why hadn't he come to him when he was feeling that way? _"What could you have done," _the dark voice chirped suddenly, a dark snide lying in its words. France froze, what could he have done? _"You only would have made it worse if you had known, don't you think?" _His chest clenched. What was happening to him, was he losing his mind?

His smile was bitter as he looked to the tile floor. "You don't remember then?" he asked. With no reply, his body slumped, as though the only string keeping him up had been cut. He wasn't able to look to up and rather he turned to the door. "We should get you back to bed."

France moved to open his mouth, only to close it quickly. He wasn't ready to press Arthur, to get him to explain himself. What did he mean, 'you don't remember?' _"How big of an idiot can you be," _the voice chirped suddenly, still with the condescending tone. _"You were there, can't even give him the courtesy to remember someone who is about to take his own life."_ Francis flinched. No, there was no way he could have known, could there? His mind raced as he tried to think, his body suddenly tired from the effort. He had to ask Arthur about this, had to find out what happened, what was wrong. "Arthur," he began, the words fumbling as he tried to tie a coherent sentence together. "Can…can we…"

"Can we what?" Arthur asked, rising from the floor and dusting off his pant legs. His voice was flat and even.

Francis flinched at the tone, finding it eerily empty. He shook his head slowly, bowing as he relented for the time being. "N-nothing," he muttered, body sagging back against the chair. "Never mind."

England helped him up from the chair, his arm looping around the other's waist. They walked slowly back to Francis' room in silence, though Arthur caught several furtive glances directed to him. Yes, he knew he was over reacting. It was ridiculous that he still reacted like this at the mere memory of it being unleashed. He was being hypocritical and he just couldn't summon up the energy at that second to give a damn. He led Francis to the bed, pulling up the cover efficiently and moved away to the doorframe. "Do you need anything else?"

France turned to look at England, poorly veiled worry in his eyes. The way Arthur was standing, his body language lacking any hint of what he was thinking or feeling, if there was anything he was thinking at all. He turned his head away, hand moving to gently grip his shoulder. It felt different than it should have, and he slipped his fingers under his shirt to feel at the bandage. Francis flinched as his fingers grazed it, the bandage felt damp and warm. He glanced up at Arthur, the same chilling look in those eyes. _It can wait_, he thought dryly. He bowed his head slightly before he turned to the window. The storm clouds swallowed the sky, tiny raindrops beginning to fall. "N-no, thank you."

"I see." Arthur turned; hand on the doorframe slipping away as he began to walk down stairs. He could've slapped himself. He needed to stop, acting like this was doing nothing to help at the second. He paused, letting an inaudible groan swell as he stopped on the stairs. He'd have to tell him eventually. He couldn't leave it like that and just expect the man to move on. Clearly, he thought as he continued his quest to the kitchen and kettle, he wasn't all that fine either if he was acting like it had only happened yesterday. Left hand gripping tightly to the banister, he turned to the hallway. He would tell him, eventually. Maybe he was being a hypocrite, but he wanted Francis to heal and be better fully rather than the shadow that was always threatening to overtake in Arthur's heart. If Francis were better, his pillar strong once again, then he would be fine once more too. He stopped in front of the stove, pulling the kettle and walking over to the sink for water. Listening to the din as the water banged into the metal, he sighed once more. He would have to tell him even if he had been able to keep it to himself for years without a soul knowing.

Francis sat completely still in his bed, eyes staring off into the distance. How could he not have known? Worry and self directed anger welled up inside of him, guilt and sadness soon joining. He was panting again, self-hatred mixing with everything else. He tried to direct his thoughts elsewhere, almost wishing the voice in his head would come back, to help him focus on at least one emotion at a time. It was silent, leaving him alone in the whirlwind of thoughts and feelings, engulfing him one after another. How could not have seen it? What good would have come if he had known? What would he do without Arthur, if he was still alive but Arthur was gone? Panic seized his chest. He could feel his heart shutter as it tried to work. Francis clenched both of his hands, his right clamping down on the bandaged wound again. Pain raced up his spine before dulling to a distant throb. It would be so much easier if he just didn't feel anything any more, if he was as empty as he almost was before Arthur kissed him. He felt his cheeks warm up as passion and hunger soon joined everything else.

He shook his head, tightening his grip on his left shoulder. No, he couldn't deal with this, not all at once. He just needed to be left alone. He needed not to feel anything anymore. He just wanted everything to go away! Slowly, he felt everything start to drain, as if someone had pulled the plug keeping everything swamping his mind. Moments passed and his body sagged as tension was leached out of him. His mind soon became an empty blank, his face hardening into a mask of nothingness. Everything was gone, all the pain and fear and anger, everything had just disappeared. He should have felt overjoyed or calm, but he felt, well he didn't feel. His right hand slid from his shoulder, and he glanced at it, as it lay limp on the bed beside him. His pointer and middle finger gleamed, covered in a transparent liquid. _That's bad_, he thought, indifferent to the entire matter.

He turned back to stare at the wall, finally achieving the void that he attempted moments before Arthur kissed him in the bathroom. The kiss, just the thought of it brought nothing to him. It was just like every other thought, as it crossed his mind then disappeared. An empty smile crossed his lips at his success, his absent gaze flicking momentarily around the room. His eyes came to rest on the white pill bottle resting on top of the bedside table. He blinked slowly, before moving to reach out to grab it, almost enjoying the feeling of the cool and smooth plastic beneath his fingertips. Almost.

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Ha. Cliffhanger, see you later faithful readers!

^DUN DUN DUN!!!! Next time on the Fading Rose... :D hehe^


	6. Chapter 6

_Hey everyone! Thanks to **Foxyaoi123, KitkatTenshi **and** Hannaadi88** for your awesome reviews. So we had a little free time smudged in our schedules and we were able to get this out. Finals are making my mind bleed at least, so it's been slow to the get-go. I just wanted to clarify that we are not dropping the story, merely spacing it out since our lives are getting hectic. Also, since I write the part of Arthur I felt the need to add a disclaimer: _**The dialogue that follows reflects in no way any of my views of the French. None, at all. Ya'll are awesome**_. _Chris-Remmey_

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**The Fading Rose**

**Chapter Six**

He was staring at a barren hearth, the remnant of fires swept away before, only leaving a stain of soot and ash. Logs were stacked, but were not alight and Arthur watched them in silence. His hand was cupped around the rim of his mug, trapping the warmth inside it and pulling it away only when his hand became damp from the steam. His gloves were still off, trapped in his pocket and forgotten as his mind wandered away. He lifted his hand, a plume of steam flowing to the ceiling as the clock chimed one. A solitary call, and Arthur's eyes moved from the non-existent fire to the clock face protruding on the mantle. It took a few seconds for him to recognize the time, despite having heard it only seconds ago and he looked down to his cup once again. The amber sloshed as he swirled it, some of the warm liquid carelessly falling onto his hand. He brought it up to his lips, licking the tea away and soothing the burn now on his skin. He gulped the rest of the earl grey down, stilling and shuddering as it scalded his throat and sent an itching pain to his stomach. Standing up, green eyes turned from the tea with only the dregs that claimed it had once been full and placed it on the table. He turned, onward to the stairs and up to his guest's room. His palm squeaked against the banister as he dragged against it, not really wanting to face the other man at the moment. However there was no choice seeing as he needed to take his medicine and, as Arthur knew only too well, he did have to face him again.

The door was closed and Arthur stood in front of it, not wanting to pass. His hand fell onto the metal knob, turned and pushed in. It opened silently, it's hinges greased and the man walked in as silent as a ghost. Across from him was Francis, tucked under the covers as though he hadn't moved since England had last left him. He was still and quiet, shadows from the overcast sky leaching any color from the room and leaving it monochromatic. Arthur bypassed the bed, ghosting over to the dresser instead where the tray had been abandoned earlier as he had retreated. He clattered the plates softly and placed them on top of each other, remnants of toast thrown on top of the applesauce to be discarded after. He turned, walking back to the bed and pulled the drapes. What sunshine had been coming into the room had been focused onto the Frenchman's face. The light was shut out and the room descended into a grey gloom.

The orange pill bottle seemed unusually bright, blaring on sensitive eyes. Arthur touched it with his hand, seeing the cap was off and revealing the endless blue pills inside. He shook it lightly, forcing the capsules to jump and eyes turned to gaze at the man lying still on the bed. The cap was held between two curled fingers, as though he had lost the energy to put it away.

Arthur sat on the bed's edge, the mattress dipping in a croak and his own clothes omitted a slither as they brushed against each other. He pulled the cap away and placed it onto the top of the nightstand. Francis' face was tuned away, partly buried in a pillow and even now though he had been sleeping for at least three hours, there was no flicker from under his eyelids, the shadows of the room making him seem gaunt. His own eyes flickered, noticing how the man was too still. Breath caught in his throat as he looked to the pills in his hand, an agonizing raw fear suddenly ripping through. _Too still, too still_–it thudded along with his heart. His hand pulled at the sheets, pealing away to reveal the torso hidden below. It swelled in breath and Arthur let his own exhale in unison. His hand rested on Francis' chest for a moment, feeling the sweet rhythmic beats of his heart. He pulled away, hands going limp in his lap as he looked to the white ceiling and then down again. The Briton then put his hand on the tee-shirt clad shoulder of his friend and gave a nudge. There was no response and Arthur tried again, adding his voice to the mix.

"Francis." There was a stir, but not much more. Arthur frowned and once more pushed at the man's good shoulder. "Come on Francis, I need to give you the medication again." He sighed, and waited for blue.

Francis opened his eyes slowly, bringing his empty gaze towards the source of his awakening. Arthur loomed over him, worry gleaming behind emerald eyes. He felt the haze of sleep clear, a small sense of accomplishment turning in his mind as he felt no feelings rise from seeing the younger man's face, or the scarred hands that still rested on his chest.

The dull soulless blue chilled Arthur, rather than gazing at eyes likened to the sky, it was like ice; devoid, lifeless, and cold. He felt the immediate sense to grip him and shake him out of what he was seeing, but a voice of reason told him to wait and see. "Sorry to wake you," England muttered, his voice tired from the hours of conflicted thoughts and he tilted his head, sandy hair splaying as it fell into the grips of gravity. "But I need to give you another dosage." He gave the pill bottle a little shake.

_Ah, yes, the medication_, he thought dryly glancing down at the bottle with little interest. "Yes, Arthur, of course," France said, his voice an even cool tone. He shifted slightly, inching himself upright, his face void of emotion.

The clouds blocked out the sun, and the little light that was in the room went dim. The worry washed over the Briton as he watched Francis, the light coming back into the room doing nothing to change the flat, grey look to him. He knew that tone, the look in the eyes – even if he had been standing in front of a mirror the last time he'd seen it, staring into green rather then blue. He hated that tone, because he knew how deadly and dangerous it was. He looked back to the pills, half brained plans starting to form. He dipped two fingers into the tube, pulling away two pills as he scraped against the orange sides. " Here," he said handing them out, "take this."

France nodded shortly, reaching out with a slow hand and taking the offered pills. He cocked his head slightly at them, gazing at the color through bored eyes. _I wonder what kind of blue this is_, he pondered dryly, shifting them around in the dim light. _Robin's egg perhaps, or maybe a powder blue?_ His own eyes flicked up to meet Arthur's, taking in the spook that was clearly written across the Englishman's face. He noticed the color begin to drain, leaving his skin the color of parchment...or was it an ivory color?

Arthur backed away, getting up from the bed and walked to the dresser where the remnants of the water from earlier stood. He gazed into the clear bottom, the glass warping everything. Hands clenching the glass tightly, he stared at Francis for a moment, the fact that something was very wrong echoing though his mind. He put the glass into his right hand, helping Francis sit up with his left. Stiffly, Arthur surrendered the water, eyes tracking every moment for the ghost of an emotion to show its self. It never came. "How do you feel?"

Francis could have smiled at the question, a hollow chuckle echoing in his head. Oh how he could answer that one. _Actually, Arthur, I'm not really feeling much of anything, but thanks for asking._ The emptiness was actually a relief, no surge of guilt or pain taking over and fuddling his mind. For the first time in a while he could actually ponder quite clearly. "Fine, thank you Arthur," he finally said before popping the round pills in his mouth and chasing them with a steady gulp of water.

Arthur began to panic slightly inside. He was sounding like he had gone quietly insane. It wasn't Francis' words so much as the lack of care, the lack of emotions and the care free edge his actions and voice seemed to hold. It was frightening, and the horrible part was Arthur knew exactly what it would lead to. A flicker of hope went up in his mind, maybe if they talked long enough he would come back again? "And your back?"

Francis took a slow, casual sip of water, blinking slowly as he turned his gaze out the window. He gently shifted his shoulder, neither flinching nor showing any pain as it twanged distantly. "Sore," he stated blankly before taking another small sip of the water.  
_What, are we talking about the weather?_ England thought, blanching slightly. He gave Francis a look dripping in confusion, to what he should do and how he was suddenly like this. The fact that his shoulder was still in pain was disconcerting. "Still? Should I take a look at it?"

Again, France turned to look England, blinking slowly and deliberately, his blue eyes still dull and empty. "If you like," he replied before glancing down at the glass. It was almost completely empty, little more than half an inch of clear liquid swilling in the bottom. He sighed, finishing off the water.

He hesitated, pausing to look into the void eyes. "Lean forward please." Arthur waited until he bent forward, slinging his leg onto the bed and behind him so he could see the bandages. Not staring into the expressionless face made it easier to think, because it couldn't really be Francis looking back. Not the man who was so full of life normally. Even these past weeks, the glimmers of life had been stifled, but there. Now his face was soulless and Arthur knew he had to do something. His mind was swiveling and searching for an answer as his hands moved gently and calmly to Francis' back.

France waited patiently as Arthur moved around him, flinching as his shoulder throbbed gently. He sat still and patient, eyes continuing to stare at the glass still grasped in his fingers. He let his eyelids fall, the haze of his eyelashes diming and blurring the world around him. A sudden flash filled the room, accompanied moments later by the roar of distant thunder. Blue eyes shot open, coming to rest on the sky, wanting to see the lightning.

Green eyes flickered up to where the light flew though the blinds, bleaching the room of color for a moment before it faded. He looked down to where Francis was, seeing him look out the window, however it was mostly covered. Arthur leaned farther over the bed, pulling the string to the blinds and yanking down as he balanced on one hand, not wanting to knock into Francis or fall off the mattress. He pulled back when the blinds locked, revealing openly the dark purple-grey clouds and the stagnant air that promised a wicked storm. He looked back to the Frenchman, sitting somewhat on the bed and partly standing on the floor as he pulled at the back of his shirt to look at the bandages. He couldn't see anything since the shadows of the room darkened it too much. England slipped his hand down to make sure it was fine. His fingers, however, never met the dry bandages. He pulled back quickly, feeling rather the damp bandages, his face appalled that it was so saturated from whatever it was. He pulled his hand away quickly, the tips of his fingers gleaming in the light. He looked up to the back of Francis' head, now more concerned and frightened. "Shirt." He ordered, "Off, now."

France turned his head to look back at him, shrugging before moving to comply. He felt England shift away from him, giving him room to move about. Gently, he lifted his arms up, pulling his shirt with it. His shoulder twanged in protest, but he hardly listened to it. It came off with a not so easy tug, discarding his shirt onto the bed. He pondered lightly about perhaps what he should be feeling; guilt, anger, sadness? He could only remember what they felt like, smirking slightly when he felt nothing.

Shifting on the bed to look at the bandages better, England looked closely at the cloth. A roll of thunder sounded outside and he cursed lightly as he saw the light yellow stain on the face of the dressing. He pulled away, looking at Francis bare back, but his thoughts trained on the bandages. "Hold on," he said, slithering off the bed and back to the floor fully. He walked over to the door, careful not to touch anything with his hand. "Let me grab some more bandages, I think I'll have to change them."

Francis nodded, hardly noticing his absence. "Take your time, Arthur." Instead his interest was taken by the storm outside once again. He closed his eyes slowly, focusing on his thoughts in the sudden silence. His mind was empty, painfully so. _All for the best,_ he thought evenly, his blue eyes locking onto the window. "The rain sure is coming down hard," he muttered, allowing the thought to die as he continued to sit patiently in the darkness.

Taking a few calm steps out of the room, Arthur bolted for the bathroom as soon as he was out of sight. He stopped at the sink, lathering his hands in the basin and washing them as he turned the tap on with the back of his wrist. Once the water had erased all the suds to the drain, he turned the tap into the other direction, to freezing cold. Letting it pool into his hands, he splashed it into his face. England relished the jolt and the sudden sensitivity his skin prickled with. He looked up to the mirror, eyes tired and gazing forlornly back. Arthur knew he had to get Francis out of that state of apathy. At any cost he had to get him to feel something. Arthur shut his eyes, allowing his breath to leave and relax his nerves. _You have to, there's no other way_, he thought grimly. Green flashed open, looking stronger and he turned his back to his reflection. Pulling out the first aid kit he always had stocked, Arthur began to walk back to Francis room, stomach already roiling with the knowledge of what needed to be said.

He stopped by the door, turning on one of the lamps to emit its sickly yellow light. Arthur looked out the window for a moment. The sky flashed with the pure hot white light, thunder rumbling soon after and giving the house a small shake. Eyes turning to the sick man, Arthur walked slowly back in. Had he been so eerie when he had given up? He didn't know, but it didn't suit Francis at all. "Alright, let me see," he commanded, already dipping into the mattress and slinging his leg behind Francis' back again.

Rather than wait for anything, Arthur set the first aid kit to balance precariously on his thigh. He began to pull away at the gauze slowly, gentle to not harm him in any way. The bandages were finally peeled back, only to reveal the angry red swelling of infection. Arthur swore, low and loud. The area around the stitches was red, a clear discharge coming from it. He put the soiled bandages aside, pulling a cotton pad out and dabbing at the fluid. "How did you not notice the discharge?" he asked.

"I did," Francis replied, muscles flinching at the touch. His face remained the void mask, eyes still trained on the windowpane.

Arthur ceased, his hand poised over the wound to dab at it again. "What?" he asked. His eyes flickered up. "Why didn't you say something?"

Francis' mind played back the image of Arthur disappearing from the door earlier that morning, only moments before he had discovered that his wound had started weeping. Arthur was upset about something, preoccupied by thoughts that Francis couldn't help but ponder on. It was the final straw that helped France lock away his emotions, blocking them behind a barrier of will. That or it was just an excuse that he had used to convince himself–not that he regretted his decision, it had made living much easier. "You were busy."

Guilt swept through the Briton, his face cringing slightly and his shoulders hunched. He continued to dab at the wound, this time with alcohol to which he whispered a warning. He discarded it, still frowning at the yellow stains showing up and pulled out Bacitracin, squeezing the gel onto the stitched area and daubing at it to spread it out slightly. "You could have said something. I'm not that busy to ignore something like this." He made a gesture to the red area. "It's getting infected."

"The antibiotics the doctor prescribed should take care of it," Francis said, his tone bored as his gaze turned to flit about the room.

England frowned. _Of all people_, he thought, _he would know better_. It was then Arthur realized that he really didn't care. He didn't give a damn anymore, not even about his recently fragile health. He didn't care if he lived or died, if there was anything to live for. He really would have to do it, wouldn't he? He tried though. "That's not enough and you know it." He fell silent for a few seconds as he grabbed clean bandages and began to wrap them. "Do you not care if you're shoulder gets an infection?"

France was silent for a few moments, pondering the question. Did he really care? Well in all honesty it hadn't really even crossed his mind. His blue eyes catching on the dresser across from him, noting dryly on the interesting and intricate carvings. "I suppose," he finally responded, blinking slowly as he turned his sight to the rain beaten window.

The lightening flashed again and Arthur listened to the rain patter before another roll of thunder reverberated though the house. He gave a weak smile and continued to finish winding the bandages. He felt sick to his stomach now. "I suppose?" he asked softly, his tone cracking slightly. "Come now, you sound like you could care less."

France merely shrugged, empty and dark eyes continuing to watch the clouds. He evenly commented in his thoughts about how rude it was to hold a conversation when you couldn't face the person. Again, he shrugged; deeming that he really just didn't care.

England was silent as he took the soiled items away, closed up the first aid kit and walked to the bathroom to dispose of the bandages. He walked slowly this time, like a man about to meet the noose. Arthur tossed the bandages into the rubbish bin, placing the first aid kit away. He went to the sink once more to wash his hands. He didn't look at his reflection, knowing it would be filled with dread and guilt for what he was about to do. He flicked the lights off after drying his hands and stopped right before he came to Francis' room. He covered his eyes for a brief moment, taking in a deep shuddering breath. He straightened his back, military like, and strode into the room. He didn't approach the bed, rather standing awkwardly in the middle of the floor. He gazed at Francis for a moment, silently sorry, before sliding a practiced smirk upon his lips. "Not much of an answer there France. Finally ran out of words?" He folded his hands and waited.

"Not much to say, _Angleterre_," he replied smoothly, taking a moment to tuck a stray strand of hair back into place. "My own fault I suppose about the shoulder. I guess I shouldn't have squeezed it so hard."

"Honestly, it's like you expect it to just get better on its own, just like your economy."

France felt his eyes widen at the sudden remark. He turned to look evenly at England, pondering on what could have brought up such a comment. His economy was recovering fine, for what he knew, and know he did. "If god wills it, it will recover," he said.

Arthur gave a slightly grand sigh, allowing his hands to find their way into his pockets. He gave a bored look to the Frenchman, his eyes hard. "Hm. And if god wills it, maybe your men could get a job." He shook his head. " Drinking wine is not an occupation I'm sorry to tell you."

He cocked his head slightly at England, his face still bored. _What exactly was he trying to do_, he pondered lightly. _Was he trying to kick him while he was down?_ The thought brought nothing with it, merely dissipating moments after it arrived. "Maybe it should be," Francis said, recalling the number of times he wished it was in the past.

Arthur closed his eyes for a moment. He took another breath though his nose and sent a cavalier stare back as his eyes fluttered open again. "There aren't enough liver transplants in the world." He added haughtily, "But maybe it's because they aren't productive to the world's economy at all."

Again, France found himself watching him closely. Something in the Englishman had changed from only moments before. He seemed more...agitated or maybe just serious. "_Angleterre_, what are you doing?" he asked evenly, deciding to voice the question he had been pondering only moments before.

_More_, Arthur thought bitterly and continued. He cocked his head slightly, folding his arms and taking a few steps closer. "Simply telling you the truth." He let his voice become condescending, something surprisingly easy to do, " I mean, it must be hard to get anything done when all anyone ever does is drink or smoke." He let go of a scathing grin, "Could also be that no one wants to deal with such rude people."

Francis felt some of his control crack. The jabs before he could deal with, but this new stab at his people was something he did not take lightly. He felt a twinge of anger settle in his gut, though his face was still a bored blank. "The French are not rude," he retorted, defensiveness and anger lacking in his tone.

England snorted, giving a roll of his eyes, "I've never met a populace more rude." He turned slightly, giving a sidelong glance. "Not even Alfred's– and that's saying something, Francis." His gaze settled to watch his friend's face and his chest felt tight with a heavy heart.

France felt another spike inside himself, the building anger making his eye twitch. The movement was covered behind a lock of hair that he failed to push back, his gaze intently on Arthur now. _What the hell was he talking about? _ he thought harshly, _His people were noble and cultured._ "Perhaps you have just interacted with the wrong individuals, Arthur, every country has a few unfavorable characters," he replied, his voice slowly losing the empty tone and being replaced by a too strict control.

Arthur was silent for a moment, looking as though he was contemplating the words in disinterest. Inside he was wincing and flinching at his own words. He should not be saying this to some one depressed. Not to someone he cared about. Not to someone so vulnerable. He wondered in a haze how far he would have to go to get a reaction and rip him from the apathy that had seemed to consume him. He continued to take the plunge. "No, it's definitely your people as a whole." Arthur pulled one of his hands away and waved it casually. "They're too distant and won't help you unless you speak perfect French." He gave a harsh glare "Terrible really."

Anger struck against the barrier again, making Francis' body become taunt and stiff with the building rage. His hands curled into fists, nails biting into his palms as he tried to bring back the emptiness and control. "Unfortunate for you to think so," he said, his voice still dangerously dry and even. "Perhaps you could try to learning a language other than your own, rather than just expecting everyone else to speak English." It was rude, and very conceited to think that everyone should speak his language, while giving no attempt to try and communicate in the native tongue.

England looked down at his fingernails. "They could do to learn a little English. It is the international language after all." He looked up again into Francis' dull eyes.

"True," France said with a nod, his bored facial expression revealing none of the anger turning underneath the surface. "But they do have great pride in their language and culture." _And they should_, he thought savagely. _No, this isn't right, I'm not supposed to be feeling anger or pride. I've got to stop this before it breaks._

_ Push harder,_ Arthur thought watching no change in Francis' facial features, biting the inside of his cheek. His lips turned up wards in a condescending smile and he looked to the ceiling as though there was a funny joke he just couldn't express. "Oh yes. How could I forget?" he said sardonically, "Every second I get stopped to be told another lesson about how greatthis is, or how historically significant that is. Arrogant and conceited, Always giving a lesson to another with out a damn for anyone else's opinion." He faced Francis fully, watching as the rain came down in torrents and the sky flashed angrily. "How very _democratic_ of them." Arthur turned his eyes away, "Seems the revolution did nothing, hmm?"

Francis set his jaw, he could feel his teeth grinding as he gritted them together. _The Revolution! He dare bring that up, as if it was something easily discussible,_ he roared. He took a deep breath, trying to squelch the rising rage. "As would it seem for America's independence," he said, scarily calm.

Turning to hide the flinch at the sore subject, it had been a low blow and he deserved it–but it didn't mean it still didn't bother Arthur; his back was now turned to the other man. He rolled his shoulders slightly, rubbing his wrist and looking at the floor. "Yes. Well….at least they have their independence," his voice sneered, but his eyes were dark in the hurt he felt for his own words. "Yours are an ungrateful communistic society who leach off the State and couldn't tie their own shoes without a national law telling them how to do so."

Furry finally made its way past his mask, his eyes narrowing as he glared straight into the man's back. He was seething, though still able to semi-control himself. His body was shaking, fists tightening in the sheets. "Careful Arthur," he warned, his voice dropping to a whisper.

Arthur hadn't heard Francis and rubbed the back of his neck quickly before dipping it back into his pocket. "But it seems to me they would just let each other rot in war, that or just abandon the trenches in fear." Green flitted to the ceiling, waiting for some sort of sign that he could stop this. Thunder rumbled dangerously.

He could literally see red, rage boiling up inside him before he had the chance to control it. "That's enough Arthur," Francis barked.

"Of course, maybe chopping each other's heads off like barbarians was the right idea, no? Let them deal with each other rather then the enemy." Arthur was ridged, shutting off the cringe that threatened to make its way out. He felt sick still to his stomach and over sensitive to each flash of lightning filling the room that was quickly chased by chest rattling thunder.

"Stop it, Arthur!" Francis roared, hands already working to yank off the blankets that covered him.

Arthur's breath caught in his throat, the thunder that had just rolled through, silencing all noise. He wondered if he was going too far. Suddenly, the words were on his tongue before he could stop them. His mouth spewed out lewdly, "Not that there's anything worth fighting over or protecting. What's their best city, Paris? It's like a cheep whore–five minutes and you're bored." He balked at the viciousness of his words.

Fury took over, his wall of control shattering at once, his voice stolen from rage. Francis threw himself out of bed, legs moving on his own as he stalked closer to Arthur, his face twisted in pure animalistic rage. His body was taunt, muscles aching as he clenched his hands so tightly they wept blood. _DAMN HIM! Damn that rosbif! Who the fuck did he think he was?_

Arthur was pale at his own words, realizing just how wretched they were. However, a shifting behind him drew him out of his thoughts and turned around see what it was.

France threw his fist through the air, a satisfying crack resonating as it connected with Arthur's jaw. He was panting with rage, eyes narrowing dangerously as he glared down at Arthur, arms locked by his side.

Arthur had landed heavily on his side, seeing stars as pain bloomed across his face. He finally gained his wits after a shuddering breath, staring at the fibers of the carpet. He twisted his head and shoved himself up, looking up in confusion. He put his hand to his cheek, registering faintly though the haze of pain that thudded though his mind and felt the blood from his lip. Francis' eyes were fierce, flashing with a rage Arthur had normally only seen on the battlefield. Behind him, a flash of lightning framed his body, which seemed to be quivering in rage. England's jaw fell slightly in amazement.

France kept his glare on Arthur, his mouth started moving before he could stop it, blinding anger taking over. "You bastard! How dare you speak of my people in such a way! They are noble and caring, which is more than I can say for any of your barbaric and crude people," he began, barely taking a breath. "Your country is worthless, packed with cretins who wouldn't know culture or art if it smacked them in the face. You're too cheap for that, willing to sell your soul for a cup of warm flavored water, not that they are even worth that much!" His hands jumped about, gesturing wildly. "Just look at your wonderful city of London, nothing more than disgusting sorry excuse for a pool of life, overrun with criminals and corruption. If you believe Paris is a whore– then London is a disease-ridden slut who couldn't give it away! You're inept, ignorant Neanderthals. Worshiping some old sagging senile hag who does nothing but sits on an empty throne while dreaming lies about the past. At least America had the right sense to get away from you before you could taint him with your corrupt and immoral nature!"

Francis stared down at him, still left panting from his rant. Some of the rage leaving him, his muscles starting to relax and body sagging. As the anger left him, he felt other emotions start to take over. He gazed at England, taking in his shocked expression and his split lip and his cheek, which had already started to bruise. Guilt rushed over him, as did sadness and horror. Disbelief soon followed, as well as a small sliver of passion as a sudden flash of lightning illuminated his face. Everything was overloading his system; feelings that he had shoved away had just built up and were coming back tenfold. France felt light headed, as it threatened to crack open. The pressure was quickly growing, doubling and tripling as emotion after emotion and feeling after feeling assaulted him. His knees buckled, making him collapse onto his hands and knees, eyes boring straight into the carpet. France's stomach turned from the agony wracking his body and mind. He felt bile creep up his throat, eyes watering as he fought it back.

Arthur had become wan at the yelling, flinching at each insult though he made no move to do anything about them, especially since it really was his fault. He pulled his hand away to look at the blood on his fingers. He was amazed that Francis had the strength to hit him so hard. Granted, Arthur had been unaware and wasn't able to defend himself, but the punch had sent him careening to the floor. His eyes flew up as Francis' face twisted and he fell to the carpet on his hands and knees. The younger man sat up fully, ignoring the throb in his cheek as he murmured, "Francis?"

France barely registered what England had said, still fighting back the rising urge to retch in his throat. It kept pressing forward, stealing his breath and making his eyes burn. He brought a quaking hand up to cover his mouth, refusing to do so here. "A-Arthur," he was able to gasp out, an unconscious pleading undertone ringing out clearly.

"Shit," Arthur swore, noticing the sudden change in the other man's pallor. He jumped up, staggering just for a second before reaching back down to haul Francis up, half pulling and half carrying the Frenchman to the bathroom in haste. He brought him to the latrine just as he wretched into the porcelain.

Francis throat burned as if it was on fire as he hurled into the toilet, tears streaming down his face. Slowly, the pressure was eased, leaving him as though his stomach had been turned inside out.

Green eyes winced at the sounds, but he pulled back Francis' hair and patted at his back soothingly. Soft calming sounds fell from Arthur's mouth as he attempted to soothe the sick man. He licked at his lip as he felt the blood welling, tasting the metallic liquid as it met his tongue.

It didn't take long for his stomach to empty; leaving him dry heaving when nothing else came up. France could barely hear Arthur over the horrible noise. His body couldn't help but relax under the soothing touch. Francis swayed to the side, his body too exhausted to hold itself up.

Arthur caught him, pulling the taller man into his grasp and encircled arms. He held the limp body against his chest, heaving a sigh and leaning his back against the tub rim. "Sorry," he whispered.

France was shaking and panting as he felt his emotions retreat, easing themselves from his aching head. It was different from before, merely disappearing till they were needed again. He felt exhausted, not empty, but most of all, he felt angry. "Y-you're a-a b-bast-tard _Angle-terre_," he barked out.

Arthur cringed and brought his head down, a breath away from Francis' golden hair. "I know. I didn't know what else to do."

A sudden new swell of anger rose in Francis, as he struggled against England. He squirmed as much as his exhausted and strangely unresponsive body would let him. _He didn't know what else to do about what?_ his seething mind cried, making his brow furrow. _What could possibly make slandering his people acceptable?_ "Get away from me, Rosbif!"

In the small window in the bathroom, the lightning flashed in the mirror, wind howling as the rain pelted and swirled about the house–shuddering as another roll of thunder swept through. Arthur could feel the cold tile against his toes and shook his head as he curled them along with his fingers. "No."

"Damn it England, let go now!" Francis shouted, his body unable to keep up with the growing ferocity of his voice. Slowly but surely, his muscled grew tired, unable to do more than twist vainly in the stronger nation's grasp.

"Are you mad at me?" Arthur couldn't hold back the twinge of hope in his voice.

_Am I mad? Was he mad? What a ridiculous and absurd question to ask_, Francis snapped in his thoughts. He tried to strengthen his attempts to distance himself from Arthur, a sudden twist sending one of his elbows directly into England's unguarded ribs. Guilt twanged before being easily shoved aside, the resulting and pleasurable whoosh of air as it left Arthur's lungs welcomed to France's ears. "No," France chirped harshly, considering going for the ribs again. "I'm furious!"

Arthur's breath was gone from the well-placed jab and coughed in an attempt to get it back. His head bent forward and leaned against, suddenly realizing, Francis' bare shoulder. He turned his head and gasped, pulling away from the Frenchman. He managed a wheezy chuckle, "I'm glad."

The admission took France off guard, the queer admittance stealing all the fight from him. He sat still, though still refusing to lean against England's frame. Confusion colored his face as he turned to gaze at the green-eyed nation behind him. His breaths were coming in spurts, wheezing out of him as he sat shaking on the cool tile floor. "What..." he gasped out, before he could stop himself.

Coughing again from the blow, Arthur smiled in relief seeing the dullness blown out of the blue eyes of his friend like cobwebs. Life had returned, and all Arthur could think was that it was worth it. "I'm glad you're livid," he clarified slightly and lightly scowled, pulling one arm away from Francis' arms and chest to rub at the purple bruise blossoming on his cheek. "Though I wasn't expecting that punch." He pulled his hand away and wrapped it around Francis, holding him tightly again as a slow breath left him. "Still, I guess I deserved it."

"Yes, yes you did," France replied, unconsciously leaning some of his weight onto England, his back too tired to keep itself upright.

"Sorry, I thought you would have said something long before it got that far," he whispered, looking up to watch the bullets of rain roll down the window.

"I did, you ass," France grumbled, the misunderstanding slowly being replaced by the anger once again. So what if England said he didn't want it to go as far, he still did, even when Francis yelled at him to stop.

Stilling and falling into silence, Arthur looked away from the window, glancing back to the man in his arms. "What?" he asked after waiting for another roll of thunder to pass. Arthur hadn't remembered him saying anything…though he had been in his own thoughts at the time.

"I did," Francis growled out again, the recent memory of his warnings falling upon deaf ears. His body took up the struggle again, no longer able to bear England's touch. "Multiple times!"

His grip tightened, not willing to let the other man leave; however his grip was gentle despite being firm. Absinthe eyes closed as he let out a pitiful chuckle, realizing his own stupidity. With his attention casted to the ceiling, England let his lips part with another sigh. "I see." The twisted mirth left his face and his eyes darkened with thought, throat swelling with admission and making it rougher. "I really am sorry, but you seemed," he paused at a loss for the right word. "Gone," he finally settled with, "And I got scared." The end of his words dropped off to a whisper and then silence.

France froze, unable to believe the words that Arthur had muttered. "Scared? Wh-what?" he whispered, confusion easily heard in his voice. _What was Arthur talking about_, he pondered. _Why was he scared? B-because of him?_

Arthur was silent for a long time, wondering if he should say anything at all. He barely noticed how Francis had quieted, as though waiting for his next few words. His breath hitched as he finally began. "You weren't responding to anything." Arthur could feel the pain reflected in his eyes. "It was like you just gave up and didn't care anymore." He brought his head down, sandy hair creating a small shield over his eyes as he looked at the nape of Francis' neck. His breath brushed against naked skin as he continued, "You can't do that. It's the most dangerous thing that can happen." He trailed off again, not sure if he could say anything anymore to the other man without dredging up more un-wanted memories that were already haunting him once again.

Francis sat completely still, almost like a statue, not wanting to disrupt England's thoughts. The warm breaths on the back of his neck made his hair stand on end, a shiver working its way down his spine. Still, he sat and waited, not wanting to push Arthur into saying what was obviously extremely difficult to remember much less voice.

The pattering of rain soon seemed to sound like a symphony of mocking claps and his eyes narrowed. He shut them at the flash of yet another lightning strike, jumping slightly at the immediate clap of deafening thunder. He mentally slapped himself, took a deep breath and continued once again. "When…" Arthur looked to the ceiling, unable to look at blue. "I didn't die, it was really bad." He shook his head again to clear the cobwebs forming in his mind. "I was so wretched and self destructive…and then I just gave up." He stopped, focusing on the golden hair before him rather than the dark shadows of his memory. "I didn't care and then that's when it got bad." His gaze became unfocused, too caught up in memories he had once locked away so well. "I started to hear things, voices, and saw beings telling me to finish myself off, shoot myself and it would be over." He smiled with graveyard humor. "Luckily, I was too sick to even move at the time or I probably would have." England fell into silence again, the swell in his throat too big to choke out words over.

Another flash illuminated Arthur's distant eyes, normally glowing green dulled as they waded through the past. France stared up into the face he thought he knew so well, mouth falling open slightly before clamping shut tightly and looking away. _He...heard voices...too?"_ he pondered in disbelief.

Seeing Francis watching him for a moment had acted like a lighthouse in the middle of a black storm. He blinked, crashing through the grey tumultuous waters his mind had casted and shook his head, remembering the present. "Well, I got out of it because I was in an argument and I just… snapped, I guess." A thought of his two unknowing saviors tinged his thin lips with a smile. "It brought me out of whatever the fuck that was and I started going through the motions of life. Talking, going to work, eating…it was just the motions at first." How could he forget the numberless nights he had been like the living dead, wishing he really had been and then numb because he was too frightened to die? "But it took a long time before it stopped being just that." Arthur craned his neck to look at Francis' face. "I don't want that to happen to you. You don't have to go through that because we're all here for you and you don't need to be alone. Not anymore."

Francis kept his eyes on the worn tile of the bathroom, images of a hollow Arthur moving around no more than a puppet would. How could he not have noticed? How could he have been so blind? He relaxed his neck, letting his chin come to rest against his bare chest, golden stubble rubbing against the small stretch of bandage he could reach. "A-Arthur..." he whispered. There wasn't much he could do about the past, but he could try and help Arthur now. Even if that meant giving up his pride.

"Yes?" Arthur asked, tugging on Francis as he shifted against the rim of the tub and bringing him closer.

France finally gave in, his body easing back against England's. A sudden coughing crushed his chest as he drew in air to speak. His throat suddenly burned and he regained the pressure in the back of his mouth, the one that he had felt only minutes before. He tried to calm the cough and hopefully the urge to retch with it. Francis could feel Arthur's body heat sinking into his bare skin, soon racing up to his face. "You're still a bastard," he muttered, his voice empty of malice.

With a start at the words, England began to laugh in surprise. It felt cathartic somehow and his body shook with the peals.

Francis rocked with Arthur's laughed, his own mouth turning up in a smile at the joyous sound. He began to chuckle along, feeling lighter than he had in awhile. The chuckle soon turned into a coughing fit, making his shoulders and chest jerk with each hack. Francis leaned forward slightly, curling his fist up to his mouth to hopefully trap the sounds. His body and muscles began to burn with the act, head getting hot.

Arthur stopped laughing, letting go of Francis to pat at his back. "Are you alright?" he asked, worried.

France waited for the fit to subside, taking a moment to catch his breath. With a tiny shake of his head he thought all about what Arthur had said, and how dark his voice had become. How close was he to becoming like that? "Maybe...I don't know," he gasped out finally. His thoughts traveled back to how England had brought him out of his...state. He flinched at some of the insults, a small smoldering fire starting back up in his belly. France turned his smoldering blue eyes up to glare at Arthur's. "Don't you ever speak of my people like that again!"

Recoiling slightly, Arthur flinched while continuing to check over Francis and make sure he was well. He gave a lopsided grin eventually, holding one hand up in mock surrender. "I know, I really didn't know anything else that would get you mad enough. You know I don't think of them like that."

"You better not," Francis playfully snapped back, the tension relaxing from his shoulders and face.

"I don't."

"Good," Francis replied with a quick nod. His blue eyes fell upon the purple flowering across England's face and the split lip that no longer bled but was still red and raw. With a sigh he leaned back again, closing his eyes as he eased his head against the cool but uncomfortable tub. He wiggled gently, trying to press more of his overly warm skin against the cold material. "S-sorry...about punching you."

"I would have gone a different route if I'd have known you were going to punch me." One of his fingers felt his lips to check for blood. "Glad to know your right hook is as good as ever," he mumbled.

Francis grunted and nodded in response before shifting again. The tub's rim was starting to give him a headache as it jabbed uncomfortably at his skull. Still, France like the cool it gave him. Why was he so hot? Shouldn't he be freezing after sitting half naked on the cold tile floor?

Arthur shifted so Francis was leaning more against his body, knowing the rim of the tub couldn't be very comfortable. He looked on in surprise as his arms encircled a warm chest and arms despite the chill of the floor and without his shirt.

Hesitantly, Francis brought his head to rest against Arthur's shoulder, the ache from the tub slowly being eased away. Soon he found himself panting lightly as Arthur's body heat mixed with his own. It was sweltering and yet, he had yet started to sweat. What was going on?

"Francis?" Arthur asked softly.

"Hmm?" Francis opened his eyes, finding a blurry haze before them. He tried to blink it away, it slowly clearing but leaving a slight vertigo feeling behind. Perhaps he was more exhausted than he thought.

"Don't…don't stop caring," he whispered, putting his chin on top of Francis' head, one of his hands resting on the Frenchman's hand. "I was really worried."

France moved to look up at Arthur, eyes unable to focus completely on his glowing green. "S-sorry," he muttered before letting his head fall again. His brow furrowed again, another wave of uncomfortable warmth washing over him. Confusion took over, but thoughts were soon muddied in his hazy mind. Suddenly his thoughts cleared slightly as his left shoulder gaze a distant throb. _The medication,_ he suddenly remembered. Francis glanced at the toilet. He had probably retched it up before it could do any good.

A throb of the familiar worry encased the Briton and he tilted his head slightly to look at Francis. He paused, cheek against the golden hair. Arthur bent down, closing in and kissing chastely against Francis' slightly upturned forehead.

A blush soon broke out over France's face as he felt the cool lips on his skin, making him lose track of all thought. The heat quickly intensified, making his mouth feel dry and working its way down to his limbs. He felt himself start to shiver as his arms and legs grew heavy. Francis tried to shift his eyes to look at Arthur, the movement causing the blurriness to return and the world to tilt around him. "Arthur..." he panted out weakly, body leaning heavily against his.

Pulling away, lips warm from the sickly body heat, Arthur swore quietly. "Damn, your fever came back." He put a cool hand to Francis' cheek to gauge the temperature.

Francis couldn't help but lean into the cool touch, shutting his eyes as his body gave into the tremors. "I-I don't f-feel we-ll," he slurred out, his mouth feeling as though it was stuffed with cotton.

"Let's get you back to bed." Arthur muttered calmly, panicking inside though from the sudden return of the fever. He began to sit up more in an attempt to get up. "Sitting on the cold tile isn't helping."

France clutched the front of Arthur's shirt as the whole world jolted from the sudden movement. He shut his eyes against, trying to help the Englishman as he tried to pull him upright. What seemed like agonizing minutes past and he opened his blue eyes to see how far they had gotten. He had managed to rise no more than a couple inches before his vision suddenly tunneled around him. He could feel darkness on the edge, creeping steadily closer and closer. Francis felt his grip slack before his body went completely limp, his vision cutting to black.

"Francis!" Arthur caught the limp man in his arms and turned him to face him. He swept a hand over the blonde hair that had fallen into his shut eyes and gave the man a small frantic shake. "Francis!" he called again, fear penetrating his cry. Outside the thunder rumbled and the lights flickered. Arthur looked up in panic and then back to the man in his arms. "Damn it Frog, don't…" he trailed off as he got to his knees, lifting Francis in one swoop and holding him as he had only a day earlier. He began to walk back to the bed, eyes glancing down and pleading for blue to look back.

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So what do you think? After this is the turning point of the whole story/relationship so sorry to put you on a cliff hanger. Who knows, if we have some heart warming reviews we might pull an all-nighter to get the next one out soon. See you (hopefully) soon dear readers!

_Chris-Remmey

(PS. Kage was at library while I wrote the Author's Comments, that's why she's not saying anything)


	7. Chapter 7

_Hey everyone! We managed to get this one out, (even IF finals are making my brian bleed) due to both me and Kage being sick and miserable in bed with a cold over the weekend. We are still sick, but we thought it's be nice if we gave you another chapter quickly. We loved all the reviews so we just had to shove aside the colds and get the next update out. Thanks so much to **Hannaadi88, Sibyl-Tarasova,Foxyaoi123, KitkatTenshi, AnaTheAwesome,Cluu, TheEvilMuffinToaster, YoakeKaze, Kiki323**, and **OneNightStanzas**. All the awesomeness in it (I swear) made the stupid cold leave (mostly). Just want to point out that this is the turing point in their relationship and story...kind of like Act 3 in Shakespeare!Also the next chapters will be fun to write, I am rubbing my hands already in glee for the oncoming...stuff and (Russia?). I'd also like to point out that there will most likely be a one shot of FrancisxArthur around the 30th, so keep an eye out for that. Thanks again,_

_-Chis_Remmey_

_Chris you're such a nerd!!! You would know the whole Act 3 thing! While Chris was all warm and cozy in her bed, I was being dragged across the state to do...um...doctor stuff. Yeah, let's go with that. And the next chapters will be fun, though trying to drag them out of Chris when she's all blushy blushy is going to be a pain. But hey, she can really write great stuff...if you know what I mean. Hehehe. Anyway, thanks for all the reviews. It really brightens the day. Each review is like getting a cuddle from my puppy! Ahhh, I really miss my puppy TT_TT. Anyway, I'm really excited about this chapter, and let's hope you're happy with the ending of this one. Hope you like where its going ^//\\^._

_^KageBecks27^ _

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**The Fading Rose**

**Chapter Seven**

The pelting of rain was doing nothing to soothe Arthur's steadily fraying nerves, the constant patter in the dark room was only setting him on edge as he gazed out of the dark window to the horizon which was devoid of its normal yellow glow of street and house lights. Another rumble of thunder sounded, although the white flashes of light were now too far away to see. Plucking absent-mindedly at the sweater he had placed over his shirt to ward off the cool air the rain and wind had brought, Arthur's thin lips fell into a worried frown. Green eyes stared into the black night for another second before returning to the softly lit room. Taking a few steps away from the window, the Englishman was at Francis' bedside and tucking the many-layered blankets up to the unconscious man's chin. He backed away, conscious of the many candles near the side table and took another look at the man he quietly loved.

Francis was lying unmoving in the bed, unconscious still from when he had passed out from the fever a few hours before. He was pale and his skin clammy, the sallow circles under his eyes only deepened with the shadows of candlelight. He had only minutes before placed his hand against the other man's face, pulling back warily from the high sickly heat radiating from his body. England pulled his phone from his pocket, staring at the now useless item with a frustrated snarl. It had been charging when the power had shorted out, effectively killing the battery. Another gust of wind outside rattled something metallic with a faint crash, another reminder to the powerful storm screaming through the night. Arthur flipped the phone open, shutting it with a snap over, and over again as he thought about what to do.

The power was out. It had flickered off as Arthur had been pulling the blankets over Francis' still form, and he had gone rummaging though the bathroom for a candle and match for emergency lights. Only after he had made sure Francis would be okay if he briefly left his side, had the Britton ventured downstairs to search for flashlights and more candles. Stubbing his foot a total of three times as he ventured around in the dark house, Arthur had also realized quickly that the phone was dead too. He had been trying to call someone to learn what to do, but the storm had rendered him alone with the ill man and no cavalry riding to their rescue.

Arthur started at hearing another rumble of thunder, realizing he had been flipping and shutting the phone while staring into the soft glow of a candle. He turned his absinthe eyes away, seeing blue and white spots from the focused light and went to sit at the foot of Francis' bed. He watched a small shiver wrack the man, the first movement he had seen for a long time and Arthur frowned again. He shut the phone with a decisive snap. "Fucking dead phone," he muttered to deaf ears and rubbed at his arms. It was too cool in the room–he needed to warm Francis up somehow. He slid down the bed slightly, wrinkling and dragging against the blankets as he leaned and placed his hand against the golden blonde's forehead. He was still too hot, but the shivers claimed otherwise.

He stood up, the bed emitting a soft groan as the springs in the mattress eased from the extra weight. He began to pace, not knowing what to do, and mutter to himself to ease the awful tension rising like bile in his throat. He paused, staring at the blaring orange bottle, which glinted in the soft light. Should he give him the medicine? He didn't know how much had been absorbed into his bloodstream. And which one? Was this from the maybe infection on his back or was it exhaustion? England's mind curdled with the riotous and vigorous questions. A quick look at Francis sent his lips loose and he began speaking out loud. "Bullocks. The bloody fucking power and phone is dead and…" he paused, sifting his hand through his hair, "What the fuck do I do?"

He walked back to the bed, tucking the blankets around Francis as he shivered again, coughing lightly. Arthur pulled away and pulled the flashlight from the bedside table into his hand, twirling the metal in his fingers as he left the room and headed down stairs again. He clicked the small plastic button on the end, the stairs erupting in artificial light as he clamored down them and into the living room. He glanced at the barren fireplace, moving past it to grab a week old paper sitting on the end of the couch and began to tear and crumple it. Arthur moved to the hearth, kneeling as though in prayer and began to shove the paper into and beneath the logs.

A cackle of thunder sounded with a flash of faint light from the windows. Brushing away a stray lock of hair, he fumbled for the lighter kept on the mantle above, grabbed the small metal box and pulled it down to him. He stared at his hand for a moment, remembering that he had failed to put his gloves back on at all. For the past two weeks, it had been required in his mind to wear them around Francis. Now…well, now it seemed to have taken a back seat and Arthur wasn't sure if he should be relieved or worried. He flicked open the top, thumb striking against the device and grinned at the familiar glow of fire. Hand moving forward slowly, England touched the fire to the dry paper, the crackle immediately audible as the flames greedily gorged itself.

He sat there, crouching and waiting for the dry wood to alight. He poked at the logs, glancing from the pale grey smoke to the black ash of the paper. Finally, one of the smaller logs was engulfed by the blaze and he breathed gently into the hearth, stirring the flames higher. Listening to the crackles and pops of the fire, the growing steady heat leaching the cold away from his body– Arthur sat still with his eyes closed and then stood up, brushing his knees off gently. Straightening, he began to walk upstairs with the torch again and re-entered Francis' room.

Arthur sauntered over to the bed, brushing his fingers though the golden locks and watching Francis' face in concern. "Come on Francis," he whispered gently, "let's get you warmer." His hand slid under Francis' bare back with practiced ease, pulling away the top layers of blankets and leaving the light sheet covering his body. The Englishman pulled his legs up, slipped his other arm under and lifted him up. _He's becoming so light_, he thought sadly and with a shift of his hand and a dip of his head, placed the torch between his teeth to illuminate his pathway as his hands were full. He started to walk once more down the stairs, careful not to shine the light in Francis' face, trip on the trailing sheet or fall down the stairs. He came to the living room unscathed and gently placed France onto the couch, wrapping the blanket around the lithe yet built body…Arthur shook his head quickly, feeling a sense of guilt for blatantly staring at France's uncovered torso when he was ill and asleep. He ran back up the stairs again, this time the torch in hand and as he grabbed all the blankets from the forlorn guest room, blowing all the candles out with a quick puff of air.

When England returned back to the living room, he began to layer the blankets once more over Francis' body, making sure he would stay warm. He pulled back, rubbing at the pain that had flared in his arm from carrying Francis down. He glanced around to see if there was anything else he could do before sighing in agitation and looking out one of the dark windows. His fingers massaged the area around the scar and walked to the kitchen to check if there was any dial tone yet. As England passed to the cooler part of the house, he could feel his skin pucker in goose bumps despite the extra layer of the sweater. The phone detached from the wall with a click and all he could hear was silence.

Damn. France's fever seemed to be getting worse and he didn't know what to do. Arthur didn't want to over medicate him and yet if he didn't do anything he knew it would probably get worse. He came back to the living room, green eyes glazing over in thought as he paced back and forth in front of the fire and couch, muttering to himself in order to calm down. "All right Arthur, " he started, looking to Francis with a brief glance, "Calm down. Now, let's think this through." Green eyes glared at the oriental carpet below his socked feet. "There is no phone, however I don't think Francis needs to go to the hospital, so the radio would be a little excessive." He thought of the emergency radio in the basement and shook his head. "Your cell phone is dead, blasted piece of plastic can't bleeding work for a moment." England tapped absentmindedly at his pocket where the useless brick lay. "And the medicine doesn't seem to be working, though it could be that it wasn't ingested at all after that little banter…" He paused, slapping his face with his palm. "Fuck! That's my fault isn't it?" His pacing grew more rapid, the strides shortening in frustration. "Stupid!" Arthur let a growl out, "At least the fever isn't terribly high. It could be worse, he just needs to sweat it out is all…but how long should that take?"

Another flash of light filled the room with a clap of thunder. Arthur stopped moving and glanced out of the window, though all he could see was the night, which was blacker than tar. "Damn bloody storm," he snarled and resumed pacing. "Perhaps…no, that wouldn't work…" The Britton fell into incoherent mumblings as his mouth began to work faster than this mind, scowling once more when his jaw became sore from the residue of pain of the punch earlier. He continued to rub his arm, stopping and gazing at the kitchen as he wondered if he should take his own medication. Wary eyes turned back to the fire again and he flinched. He didn't want to be drowsy if he was the only one taking care of Francis, he couldn't have that over his head if something should happen to the other man. He turned to the kitchen again, walking in with only the faint firelight to guide him and brushed his hands along the counter as he groped semi-blind for the battery-operated radio.

Coming across the plastic, England fumbled for a little in the near dark for the switch–sighing when it turned on with a squeal and settled onto a constant static. Fingers twirled the knobs in practiced ease and stilled with the sudden change in noise as a woman continued to talk slowly. "_The storm has downed power lines across the state and effectively shut off communication. Denizens are strongly suggested to remain indoors until the storm is…_" Arthur shut the radio off, not hearing anything that he couldn't have perceived from the howling winds and lack of lights, and returned to the warmer room. He settled on the floor, resting his back against the couch and staring blankly at the warm flickering fire.

France's head lolled in his fever dream. Horrible images of the past ravishing his mind. He found himself back in Paris, when Germany first took over. He could see it perfectly, too perfectly. He was lying at Ludwig's feet, his body broken and bruised as he glared up into the blue eyes as best he could. The pain was back, could feel the warmth of his blood covering his skin, the panic and resolve of his people still burning within him. He growled at the delirium inspired Germany, his lips back in Arthur's living room mumbling softly along.

England stilled upon hearing the noise come from above his head. He moved away from the couch slightly, turning to look upwards at Francis. He twisted his arm to rest upon Francis' clammy forehead, checking the temperature for the persistent fever and watching his lips move within the confines of a feverish dream. He moved his hand to the older man's shoulder, frowning as he read Francis' darkened and chapped lips. "Francis? Can you hear me?"

Francis flinched underneath the touch, recoiling against the ghost hand of the German soldiers as they took out their pent up frustration and anger on his already bleeding body. "L-let go!" Francis gasped out, flinching as another ghost blow struck him, the laughter of the sadistic SS soldiers ringing in his head. "N-no!" He could feel the sharpness of a blade being dragged across his skin. "En-ough, pl-please!" Tears welled in his eyes as one of the soldier's blew a cloud of smoke into them, bringing more laughter from their satanic throats.

Arthur recoiled upon hearing the begging; though it was so low he had to bring his head closer to make out what he was saying. He wished he knew what the other man was dreaming of, but he knew it couldn't be good. His fingers brushed at a few stray locks and then he began to pat his head, cheek, and arms soothingly. "Francis, it's all right," he said calmly. "You're safe. I'm here with you. It's all right." He got to his knees and kneeled by Francis side, watching his face twist from the dream.

Twisting as much as his worn body would allow, Francis' eyes squeezed shut, trying to get away from the horrible images his fever mind played for him. "I-it hurts!" he screeched, body burning as he struggled against unseen hands. His head rolled with another imaginary cuff, a vicious cough rattling his chest. "S-stop it!"

The fire popped like a pistol going off, yet Arthur didn't flinch or look away from the ill man. "It's all right, It's only a dream," his voice was soft with emotion, "Francis, focus on my voice. I'm sitting right next to you." His other hand entwined with France's fingers. "It is all right."

Francis' fingers locked onto Arthur's, squeezing them tightly, his voice briefly making its way through to his dream. Suddenly he found himself away from the dungeon that had been his prison. Instead he found himself on top of the roof, a sudden shove pushed him forward, making him tumble over the edge. His body twisted away, a whimper escaping his lips. His breath left him in hard pants, tears streaking down his face.

Arthur continued to stoke his face, rubbing at his arms intermittently and uttering soft soothing noises. " Hush… you'll be fine." He tightened his hold on Francis' hand. "It's only a dream," he said confidently.

Still clutching onto the side of the building in his fever educed nightmare. He glanced up, seeing a figure standing above him. Slowly the person came into focus as Francis thrashed about against the couch cushions. Above him stood Arthur, his face blank, absinthe eyes staring down at him. "A-Arthur," France cried out, pleading for help.

Bending his head forward to it rested on Francis' shoulder, wheat colored hair feathering over the other man's face, Arthur muttered into his ear, "It's all right. I'm here."

Francis watched as the Arthur's lips above him spread into a smile, his lips moving with the words but otherwise made no movement to help him. France looked up with pleading eyes, the wall starting to give out beneath his grip. "A-rthur...help...ple-ase," he said between pants, a groan making its way in the end as the heat rose to an unbearable level.

Arthur was now bent in an awkward embrace, still kneeling like a knight before his king. He pulled his head away, giving the sun colored blonde's hand and arm a squeeze and frowned at the high burning fever growing hot like embers. It wasn't good. "I'm right here Francis. I've got you."

The comforting embrace reached France even in his dreams. Rooftop Arthur bent over the ledge and reached down before wrapping a gentle hand around his wrist, pulling him up with a look of ease. "A-Ar-thur." Francis felt as if he was floating, rising up farther and farther into a blissfully empty darkness.

The crackle of fire was painfully loud in the silence as Francis stilled. "Shhh," he hushed. "It's only a dream. I'll be right here until you wake up." England's palm drifted down Francis' bare arm and he tugged his own hand away with a worry-tinged smile. He rubbed his wounded wrist as he stared at the sleeping man in contemplation, the prickles of a dulling pain still attacking his own nerves. Arthur sighed, watching the man sleep without the fever induced delusions. "Jeeze," the Britton muttered and stood up from the floor, his bones aching slightly from sitting on the hard planks of wood and thin carpet. He hesitated for a brief second, then turned to the dark kitchen once again. "It must be bad if it's like this."

A distant rumble of thunder was now drowned out by the banshee like wind, the panes of glass in the window leaching all heat away as he passed on by. Arthur shivered at the change of heat and took a glass from the cupboards and pausing once more to open the tap. Turning around, he walked back to the living room again, this time malachite eyes searching for the small pill bottle–one of many with his guest's name on it. The Englishman finally found it on the mantle and popped it open to pull out a single large white tablet. He crushed it between his fingers, dropping the dust and pieces into the glass he had filled with water. He swirled it, watching the pieces slowly dissolve and came back to the couch. He left the glass on the table and dipped his hand to Francis' back, feeling muscles shift as he helped him sit up in his sleep.

"Alright Francis, here's some medicine," he said aloud, knowing he would get no reaction. He reached over and caught the glass, pulling it against Francis' lips. He tipped it slightly waiting for his mouth to part and allow the trickle of medication to be taken.

Francis struggled against the liquid at first, unable to get the drink to stay down. A cough threatened to upset the water's path, allowing the medication to help ease the fever. Gently, Arthur's fingers worked at his throat, making them work the cooling water down to his core. Francis finished off the glass with a cough, turning away and trying to bury his head in the couch as he sucked down another shaking breath.

Arthur pulled away, the glass placed back on the table with a soft clatter. He ran his hand through his hair, sending random tufts up. He rested his hand on the nape of his neck, then pulled it away as he stoked the fire and added a few other logs to the glowing flame. He settled against the couch, his head resting on the edge of the cushion. England looked up at the shadow marred ceiling, staring unseeing and let his breathing even out. He listened to the steady swells and ebbs of Francis' breath, allowing it to carry him away to slumber like a , the Englishman's dreams where nettled with the past.

* * *

Slowly, Francis found himself resurfacing from the fever's touch, the medication finally kicking in. A shimmer of sweat covered his skin, his fever finally breaking after hours of torment. His body stirred, still sluggish and worn from his battle with the infection. France's eyes fluttered open with great difficulty, his lids heavy and vision blurry with the lasting haze of unwilling sleep. He watched the firelight dance across the ceiling; slivers of his delirious dream assaulted his already weary mind. Francis cringed, draping a cool hand across his eyes.

He hadn't thought about the events of the war for years now, Ludwig already having made amends for things that Francis couldn't bring himself to blame him for. It was hard being a nation, having to listen to whichever human was running the government at the time. What could humans possibly understand about their actions, their life spans not long enough to deal with the withstanding consequences. They were naive and stupid, but that didn't stop Francis from hating some of them. His thoughts drifted back to the soldiers' faces from his too recent nightmare. He scowled at them, sending an ache through his brow and neck. He hated those men, with every inch of his being.

France's mind continued to shift with thought, bringing about the last part of his dream, seeing Arthur standing above him. His smile shinning like a beacon, straw colored hair blowing in the wind. He felt the same comfort wrap around him, easing himself from his discomfort. "Arthur," he muttered.

The other man was on the floor, having slid down in the tumultuous visions in his mind. His face twisted into a grimace as he continued to be imprisoned by the dream. _He was in his office, filing and signing necessary paperwork for officials and checking over a report that one of the other Nations had handed him. He looked up at the worn room, the only room in truth that he felt completely comfortable in. His eyes slid down, frowning in the realization that America had not yet turned in his report on his economy. Scowling, Arthur went to grab at another manila folder on his desk. A dark shadow of a hand covered the desk and Arthur looked up expecting to see the ex-colony he had raised. Instead, there was only the open door looking into the empty guest room across the hall. He frowned, looking back to his desk and stilling as he looked at the shadowed silhouette of a hand again. He stood up, his hand reaching for his drawer that kept his gun. "Who's there?' he asked, the anger building in his voice with the thought that someone was messing with him. There was no reply, and Arthur stayed tense for a few more seconds before a hissing filled his ears. '__**You have been so unhelpful Arthur, you must be punished**__.' And a sudden choking force wrapped invisibly around his neck, shutting off all noise and lifted him up, his feet barely touching the ground. His body shuddered as he tried to choke out for air._ On the floor, Arthur twitched, stirring lightly with a suppressed cough.

Francis felt his vision clear, letting his hands slide from his face as he really glanced about the room. _Wait,_ he thought, eyes traveling about the room again. "W-what...where am," his voice cracking, throat sore from being so dry. "Where am I?" He tried to sit up and look into the dancing light of the flame, blinking slowly. "Arthur?" he whispered, falling back, eyes flickering about trying to find the other nation.

_ Arthur was pulling at his throat, but could not pry the force away; it was like trying to tug at air. His neck snapped back as the force shook him, feet kicking to stay on the ground. '__**Why couldn't you have listened to us Arthur? We were only trying to help you, but you shunned us. We've taken it upon ourselves to carry out the task Arthur. You'll thank us later, Arthur**__.'_

No! _Arthur thought frantically and continued to gasp futilely for air. It was the voices of is executioners, the voices that had every day told him to kill himself– how much better he would feel if there was no more life. He fought harder to get out of the sinister grip. No! He yelled again in his mind, unable to make any other noise but a wheezing hack. He struck out with his foot, toppling his lamp with a loud crash, but a keening scream came after and the force left, allowing Arthur to collapse to the ground and sob for breath like a drowning man._

_**'Tsk, Tsk,'**__ the voices started, from every corner of the room. '__**Must we do it for you?'**__ Suddenly, his arm straightened out before him, twisting and bending with a force that was not of his own. He cried in pain, clutching his forearm as what felt like a metal hinged rod furrowed down deep between his veins and bone. He rasped a breath, his throbbing windpipe searing as he watched his arm move, jerking him up to the desk and pulling out the sleek gun inside. _Please, no_, he thought in a panic. His other hand pinned to his side as the possessed arm cocked the gun against his head. '__**Say goodbye Arthur, it'll be all better soon**__.' _

_ "No…Please…I'll do anything," he whispered hoarsely. _

_ '__**Anything?**__'_

Francis felt the couch shift beneath him, though he had been lying still. He twisted to his side, seeing a tuff of honey hair beneath him. "Arthur?" he grunted out. When he received no answer he carefully propped himself up on his elbow, taking a moment to rub at his eyes, wondering if this was just another dream. "Arthur," he croaked out again.

_ His finger flicked away the safety and pulled the trigger. His lips parted in anticipation for the blackness, or pain, but none came. He opened his eyes, having shut them in knowing and stared in horror at the scene before him. Alfred was standing there, a confused look on his face as a sanguine flower blossomed on his shirt. He glanced down, let out a small 'Oh' and fell to the ground in a shudder, holding his chest tightly. "Alfred!" Arthur called out in a panic and fear, frozen by the force and felt his eyes tear. "No! Alfred! America!" He let out a sob, "No!" _

_ '__**You said anything…**__' the voices said calmly. _

_ Arthur snarled, his eyes darting for the being who held him still, but his eyes fell back to Alfred as the young Nation's eyes drifted to the ceiling with one last shudder, his eyes going blank and dull in death. Arthur heard the rumble of steps and suddenly Matthew was standing before him, a cry filling the house as he stared at his dead brother. He rushed to Alfred's side, futilely trying to bring him back. Arthur noticed in horror as his voice became clamped deep inside and his hand directed the gun to Matthew._

_ Canada looked up, tears running down his face in surprise, then fear and then a deep rage. His hand came up, smeared in the bright red blood of his kin. "England!" he choked out. And Arthur aimed right between the two wide bright lavender eyes and pulled the trigger once again. _

On the floor, Arthur began to shake, violently turning his head away from the spray of blood erupting in his mind. His head lolled as a soft gasp fell from his lips.

France's face twisted in worry, blue eyes gazing at the back of Arthur's head. "Arthur," he rasped again, lifting a shaking hand out to grasp his shoulder. The instant his hand touched the sweater clad shoulder, he jerked it back as though he had been electrocuted, feeling the shaking running through taunt muscles. His heart clenched as he heard the moan of distress pass his lips.

"Arthur," he tried again. Once more he was left without reply. He bowed his head as he worked on pushing himself upright, limbs trembling with the effort. Francis reached a hand up to the back of the couch, using it to pull himself up so he was sitting. Cautiously, he eased himself onto the floor, sliding so he wouldn't have to trust his legs to hold him. Taking a moment to catch his breath, before shifting towards the man who trembled in his sleep.

He wrapped his arms around the shaking green-eyed nation, gently pulling him towards his chest. It took some effort, a coughing fit wracking his ribcage before he could stop it. He finally managed to cradle Arthur against him, slowly rocking him back and forth, calming noises passing his lips. "C-come on," he coughed between the words, "w-wake u-p."

However the island nation was trapped by the viciousness of his mind. _He dropped to his knees, the entity letting him do that much, as he stared at the two bodies in front of him. Blood flecked his arms and face. _No_, he thought– half crazed by his actions, _Matthews blood. Why_? A choked sob fell from his lips and tears fell down his face. This couldn't be. _

_ "Arthur? Matthew? What's going on?"_

_ Arthur stilled again and glanced up sharply, Francis' voice carrying down the halls with light footsteps. _

_ "No!" he yelled before being silenced by the darkness._

_ '__**Yes**__.'_

_ "Arthur?" Francis' voice called out in worry, and his footfalls sped up. Arthur stared at him in fear, sheer bloody fear, as the man's eyes widened while the arm moved again to it's new target. "Mon Dieu." Francis breathed, staring both between fear, anger and confusion at Arthur. _

NO! Don't come closer! Run! Run, God damn it, run!_ He thought in a panic, his lips parting in sheer will power for fear of the other man's safety. "Ru…" he whispered before another bolt of agony flared through his arm and the gun jabbed up swiftly. _

_ '__**DO IT**__!' the voices cried, buzzing in frenzy like a shark smelling blood. _

_ "Get away!" Arthur choked out. He couldn't do this. _God, not Francis too_._

_ "Arthur?"_

_ '__**NOW!**__' They screamed and forced the trigger back. Francis jolted backwards, his eyes wide in confusion as though he couldn't understand why the bullet had hurt. He looked down at his shirt, the light blue button up saturated in blood from his heart. He stared at Arthur and fell to the ground, eyes closed. _

_ Arthur screamed._

Francis frowned deeply as the shaking increased, head thrashing against some unseen horror. France wrapped his arms around Arthur tighter, bringing the night terror plagued man against his chest, continuing to rock back and forth. More shushing sounds came from his mouth, broken frequently by coughs. "It-it's alr-ight, Ar-thur," he cooed, turning his head to cough into his bare shoulder. "N-now w-wake up, come on," he added, his raspy voice growing weaker with each phrase.

Arthur snapped awake, a scream caught in his throat and he sat up, hand clamping to his mouth as though he was going to be ill. He coughed, spittle falling into his palm as he gasped for air and tears sprang to his eyes. Arthur shut his eyes briefly, opening them once again as he noticed the contact of arms against his body.

"Ar-thur?" Francis shifted so he could gaze into Arthur's pale and sweat covered face. "You're al-right, it was just," he cooed, breaking to suck in a breath before coughing again, all the while continuing to rock back and forth, "–just a d-dream."

Blinking through the grips of the dream, England shuddered once again and covered his eyes for a moment, staring at the fire through the slits of his fingers. He finally seemed to gather reality and he pulled his hand away after a long minute. He looked about the living room; secretly relieved it was not the office. "R-Right." He turned to Francis, not registering anything but the fact he was alive. He rubbed his eyes and stared at the blue-eyed man. Eyes glanced over his bare torso and then at the floor. "Why are you on the ground?" he asked, gaining his wits back slowly. "You still have a fever don't you? You should get under the covers."

Francis gazed back, not trusting the turmoil and distress churning behind Arthur's eyes. "I-I'm fi-ne," he reassured, not loosening his grip on the still trembling man. "Are you al-right?"

_No, because I just shot you through the heart_. Absinthe eyes looked back to the fire, not trusting his eyes to stay dry or calm if he looked at Francis. "Yes, it was only a dream," he said nonchalantly. He wanted to grip his sides from the tearing feeling he felt deep inside. It had actually been a horrible nightmare and he had half a mind to venture through the storm and find Alfred and Matthew to be sure they were alive.

France frowned in worry, turning his head once more to bury his mouth in his shoulder to stifle a cough. He opened his eyes once again, watching as the firelight made the sweat pool off his skin, his exposed body erupting in goose bumps. "Y-you we-re tos-sing all a-bout," he argued, turning to look back at him.

"It…" Arthur trailed off and squeezed his eyes shut, his heart still rapid from the fright. He looked to the ceiling and blinked slowly, hands gripping the cloth of his pant legs. "You should be covered up and not on the cold floor." He'd be damned if Francis got even more sick because he refused to cover up his well-toned chest. Arthur looked away more, clearing his throat and looking to the carpet, his hand coming up and plopping onto the Frenchman's forehead. "You still have a fever." He noted at the sick heat that was radiated, but significantly cooler.

Francis narrowed his eyes, glaring into his Arthur's face. He wrapped a shaking hand around England's and pulled it away. "I-t's fi-ne. W-what happ-ened?" He was met with silence again. With a sigh he pulled Arthur closer, letting out another cough. "Pl-please, tell me a-bout you dr-eam."

_No. You don't want to know_, Arthur thought and for a pitiful moment he shut his eyes again, unable to recall the last time someone had held them to their chest and tried to soothe him. It was almost disconcerting. He opened his eyes again. He let out a baited breath. "It's not fine, you have a fever and should be taken care of properly. Wait here while I get the thermometer." He began to push away so he could rise.

Francis tightened his grip again, his arms shaking with the effort. He waited until Arthur's clothed back rested against his naked one, coaxing the man to lean his head against his shoulder. "Arthur, tell me about your dr-eam," he pleaded, turning to cough for what seemed like the hundredth time. "Do, and I'll d-do what y-you ask," he tried to reason.

"Your health isn't really up for negotiation." He muttered with a glare. He looked into the blue eyes and then quickly back to the fire. "It…It wasn't pleasant," he started so quietly he wondered if Francis could even hear him.

"It do-doesn't matter," he grunted back. He could feel his muscles tighten as they tried to shiver to warm his quickly cooling body. Francis tried to lock his body to stifle them, not wanting to frighten Arthur and disrupt him from telling him what happened. "I wan-want to hear i-it."

Arthur frowned. "Bullocks. It's nothing really, just a…." He stopped, looking at Francis' face and deeply into the taller man's gaze falling quiet. Capitulating, he began. "I was in my office working on some paperwork when I heard…" he trailed off and spat, "_Them_ again."

Francis settled against the couch, bringing Arthur with him. "Th-em?"

With a faint nod, Arthur stilled– his face paling in the clutches of darkened memories. His breath couldn't come out even no matter how he tried and the pain in his jaw and wrist seemed unusually prominent. "I told you about how I heard voices to kill myself after…I," he sighed, "tried to kill myself, right?"

France stiffened suddenly, the color draining from his face. Yes, he did remember. He also remembered that he was too stupid to notice any of the signs. Francis shook his head sharply, trying to focus on the man in front of him. He needed to help Arthur, and worry about himself later. "Yes," he finally whispered, his voice coming out in a comforting calm.

Arthur glanced up, sliding his green eyes to look at Francis. He seemed too pale, too in need of rest. Looking back at the fire, the Englishman paused. "…Right. Well they were back again. Louder too, no matter what I said." His voice was falling softer and softer– he was starting to wonder if his voice would become inaudible soon. He drew his knees to his chest, suddenly needing to be protected on all sides. "It's ridiculous…It was only a dream." He felt his hair shield his eyes. "This time though they did more than ridicule me. Somehow they managed to–" he stopped to fumble for the right word. "Well…I guess control my arm and I went for my gun."

Francis flinched and wrapped his arms around Arthur tighter, one hand moving to gently rub his arm soothingly. He stayed silent, not wanting to push Arthur too hard.

"And…" his hand went to his head. "I was about to pull the trigger and I was begging them not to because I had too much to live for to die this time." He couldn't bring himself to look at the man holding him, rather wanting to curl up into himself. "And then the gun fired."

Frowning, Francis' hand traveled up to Arthur's hair, stroking it calmly. He twisted so his blue eyes could gaze at the pale Englishman's face. "Arthur..." he said gently.

It was like a band-aid, say it quickly and it might hurt less. "I killed Alfred."

Again, Francis flinched. _No wonder he was thrashing about_, France thought seriously. Distantly he could feel his body start to shiver, the air cold even with the fire and Arthur so close to him. Even the couch seemed cold against his bare back.

He still couldn't bring himself to look at the blue eyes he knew so well. "I killed him instead of my own self when he came through the door." Arthur stilled and began to tremble again at the vivid dream. "And then Matthew came in from hearing the gunshot and ran to Alfred's side crying." Why was he saying all this? He could have stopped at Alfred and it would have been enough, but the words continued to spew. "He started crying and looked straight at me and I…" he bent his head down into his arm resting on his knees and stifled a harsh shudder. "Shot him between the eyes." The words were muffled and yet saturated in remorse and fear.

France felt his stomach lurch at the admission. His vivid imagination brought the words to life, the image of a lifeless Matthew and Alfred lying on the floor, their blood slowly making a sea of red around them. He closed his eyes against the thoughts, moving to lay his chin on Arthur's shoulder, trying to help keep him in the present. Slowly and cautiously he began to cradle Arthur against him again, easing him even further into his hold and continuing the gentle rocking.

"And…" Arthur continued, his eyes prickling harshly with tears and burning. He fell into another lull of silence before choking out, "…you came in."

France froze at the words. _S-so there's more_, he stuttered even in his own mind. He could tell where this was going, no matter how much he wish he didn't.

Arthur could feel Francis' muscles tense; the lull of the rocking saying more than words and the Britton just shut his eyes. "I..." he choked on his words again before clenching his jaw. "…told you to get away, but you wouldn't listen. And they started to yell at me, no matter what I said…and," he broke off, unable to say the words. It was only a dream, why was he so worked up over it?

A lightheaded feeling took over Francis' head, his mouth feeling suddenly even drier. "And w-what, Arthur?" he urged on, his voice creaking. It was hard to hear, even harder knowing where the words would be coming from, but he knew Arthur had to say it out loud. Slowly, he tried to start the rocking again, his body resisting the effort at first.

"I shot you, right through the heart." The words were dead and his tongue like lead. Arthur wanted to pull away, but Francis' arms were surprisingly strong around him, holding him down to sanity.

Francis recoiled slightly from the words, his heart clenching as though he could feel the wound. None-the-less, he kept his arms tightly around the shaking man, shifting stiffly so he could see him better. Carefully, he turned Arthur's shoulders until he had to meet his gaze. He watched patiently as damp emerald eyes came to meet his own. "It was just a dr-eam, Arthur," he said reassuringly. He paused to cough, cursing the urges bad timing. "It's alright."

"I-It's not alright," he whispered, looking down to Francis' chest rather than his eyes. His voice became hard in self-directed anger, "I fucking shot you and Alfred and Matthew!" He shook his head. " I…it can't be…I know it was

a dream, but I haven't…" His head fell into his hands, resting against Francis clavicle and could hear his breath loudly. "Those bloody fucking voices. I thought they were gone for good."

Francis furrowed his brow as he felt Arthur's body beginning to shake, his breaths coming closer together. _He'll start to hyperventilate if he doesn't calm down_, France thought as he continued to cradle the trembling man. "Arthur," he called softly.

But the panicking man couldn't hear the call of his name despite their faces being so near. He continued to ramble, unable to think anything but ridding himself of the dream. "And then I…how could I have gone through with it? I mean, I know it was just my mind. I didn't want to." His breath was dusting against Francis' skin, heating his own face. "It was too real. I killed Alfred on their whim." England's voice lowered, "I fight with him against a whole damn war and couldn't shoot him and just because I couldn't–because of this…" His words held a frantic edge.

"Arthur, it's alright," Francis said again, his voice a little louder. One of his hands moved to the rambling man's neck, gently trying to massage some of the tension away. _He needs to relax before he makes himself sick,_ he thought seriously.

England continued to ramble, no longer really conscious of the words he was muttering at rapid fire. "It's not! How could I have done something so horrible, even if it was only in my mind, but it was still my thoughts! And I…I just didn't feel anything until…until." His breath was caught in his neck, not fully registering Francis' attempts at calming him down.

"Arthur!" France pleaded, giving him a gentle shake. He tried to get the green eyes to meet his own. They were distant and slowly growing dimmer._ I have to get his attention. He's forgetting to breath._

"I couldn't…I would never harm…" Arthur looked up, but unseeing.

Francis brought his lips down to meet Arthur's, silencing any other words. It was gentle and warm. France could feel the tension slowly drain from Arthur's mouth.

Arthur was stunned, malachite eyes wide and quickly bright, and for a moment unresponsive. Then he suddenly wanted the other man, he _needed_ Francis. He had to show him what the man meant to him, even if Arthur wasn't completely sure himself. His chest ached and leaned into the embrace and kiss, teeth nipping and lips parting in willing and heart aching passion.

Francis slipped his tongue into the opened mouth, gently tasting and exploring all that Arthur was giving him. His hand trailed down to Arthur's back, fingertips tracing along his spine through the cloth. A surge of passion and wanting ran through him as he felt the Englishman responded, his touch bringing a moan from Arthur's throat. He pressed into the kiss, other arm pulling the younger man close till their chests were flush against each other. He needed Arthur; he needed him to keep living. He needed to touch him, to feel his heartbeat, to hold him in his arms. A warmth settled in the pit of his stomach, his heart aching for the green-eyed man, for the one he loved.

Fingers running through the golden locks, Arthur was embracing every second their bodies touched, legs sliding over Francis' folded ones. His breathing had sped up, gasping for air in the moments when he parted to nip at the other's neck or jaw line, quickly reeled back in by Francis into the crushing lips and gliding tongues. The heat their bodies were producing; grabbing, feeling, rubbing– was quickly moving down into the pit of his stomach and making all of their movements hyper sensitive. Arthur's hands flew down the bare chest of the Frenchman; glad there was no barrier of cloth to obstruct him.

A shiver of pleasure worked its way down Francis' spine as he felt Arthur move against him. All thoughts flew out of his mind as his full attention came to rest on the man before him alone. He broke the kiss, moving his lips down to nibble at the sensitive skin right below the ear, gently trailing down to the nape of Arthur's neck. A pleased hum resonated deep within his throat as a gasp escaped Arthur's lips, the lean body arching into his touch.

Arthur's mind was going numb, not from unwanted emotions but the haze of unadulterated pleasure. His neck dipped back as kisses fell along the column of his neck and…_Oh, what was he doing?_ His hands became splayed over Francis' chest as a soft mewl came from his throat, blushing from the noise but was soon forgotten as they both shifted and legs covered and tangled. Arthur dipped his head, kissing and worshiping the expanse of skin before him in an almost devout manner. When his head was pulled up to meet Francis' lips again, he opened his eyes and fell deep into the blue eyes looking softly back.

Francis gazed back, the hunger growing in him as he saw the desire shining in the green eyes. His fingers slipped into the straw hair, massaging the scalp as he pulled Arthur even further in his grasp. The pit of his stomach was warming and twisting pleasantly with each passing moment, the dying fire casting an angelic glow across Arthur's skin. He fought against the urge quickly rising in him, the Englishman's labored breathing driving him insane, his skin prickly with electricity. He shut his eyes as he dominated the younger nation again, craving more.

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MWAHAHAHAHA!!! Oh nos, did I leave it off just when it was getting good...whoops! D ^KageBecks27^

O Arthur! *///* What am I writing? - Chris_Remmey


	8. Chapter 8

Hello everyone! I hope all is going well for you! Here is chapter 8 after the long delay, I want to thank everyone who reviewed. You make writing awesome! (I would have something clever to write here; but I'm falling asleep at my computer.)

_Chris

SAH! Bonsoir my friends! Soooo late but we kinda had to get it done cuz well...you're awesome and we owe it to ya. Sorry for the long delay well..yeah. I'm excited to see what people think of this little chapter but well..yeah. Reviews are awesome! Right...well I'm gonna go pass out now!

_KageBecks27

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Francis slipped his hand under Arthur's sweater, fingertips brushing against his ribs. He growled in pleasure as he felt Arthur's breath hitch and body arch into his touch. Francis tried to deepen the kiss, but the lack of breath and growl tickled his sore throat, making his chest heave. Much to his displeasure he pulled away, turning his head and unthreading his hand from Arthur's locks to cover his mouth as a deep dry cough shook his shoulders.

Arthur opened his eyes, watching through slit lids as Francis turned away. Green eyes widened however as soon as the coughing began. He blinked, putting one of his hands on the other man's shoulder, waiting for the fit to pass. It was a sudden reminder of his illness and the fit of passion was suddenly squashed to cold dust in his stomach. "Um…" he started, tilting his head slightly.

Francis turned back towards him once the burning had calmed, he could feel a bead of sweat trailing down the side of his face. He brought his blue eyes to gaze at Arthur, noting the worried gleam in his eyes. A guilty and apologetic smirk crossed his lips. "Forgive me," he panted, his breath still stolen from what they had been doing only moments before. Passion and pleasure still hummed in his body. "It seems I have ruined the moment, no?" He ran his hand still tucked under Arthur's sweater down his ribs once more, taking care to graze the sweet spot he had recently found.

With a shiver, Arthur lowered his head as his skin danced with electricity from Francis' fingertips. He tightened his fingers around France's shoulder and leaned in to the touch more. It was then that Francis cleared his throat from the coughing and Arthur opened his eyes again, the spell broken once more. Looking to the carpet, he pushed himself away slightly. Arthur flushed and let out a puff of air, feeble words forming despite the haze of passion still paralyzing his tongue. "Tea."

Pausing suddenly, Francis turned to gaze into absinthe eyes, confusion shining in his own. "Huh?" he gasped out, the sudden word catching him off guard.

Pushing himself away from the expanse of exposed chest, Arthur sat back on the carpet, clearing his head with a shake, and then stood up. "Tea…I think I need to make tea." Arthur looked at the fire, face erupting in a dark blush. "You're still sick after all…" He looked away, moving towards the kitchen in a flurry of ruffled nerves.

Francis watched him go, his eyes still wide in confusion before furrowing together in annoyance. _Tea, _he grumbled. _At a time like this_! He shook his head, trying to calm himself down. France was suddenly all too aware of the chilling air as it ghosted over his skin, racking his body with shiver after shiver. Shakily, he wrapped his arms around his bare torso, left shoulder giving a distant twinge.

He sighed, muttering to himself. "H-he's probably right." Not that the realization made him feel any better about the situation, but the fact that Arthur seemed to have come out of his episode calmed him a little. Heaving another heavy sigh, he unwilling unwrapped his arms from himself and placed them on the edge of the couch. Slowly, he began the effort of rising himself up off the floor. Francis' breath became labored, a sheen of sweat breaking out on his skin as his limbs trembled with the effort. Finally after agonizing moments, he found himself seated on the plush couch once again.

Standing in the darkness of the kitchen, Arthur turned his head around looking for the outline of the kettle. Finally giving up after seeing it nowhere, he began to toss the cabinet doors open and groping blindly for the metal body. As he continued to search for it, he became more agitated; along with the fluster from moments earlier he started banging around the pots and pans loudly. He felt guilty for leaving Francis there, but he didn't have it all figured out yet. Were they in love? Was it the illness and the only too recent incident that was mangling their hormones? Arthur didn't want to think about it. Besides, he was taking advantage of an ill man. At least, that was what he kept muttering to himself as he looked through the kitchen. Finally finding it behind the toaster, he filled it with water and then stared blankly at the stove. There was no power. How was he going to heat the water? He swore and kicked the stove lightly, looking out at the living room in dread.

Colorful words fluttered through the still air, making a small smile beseech his lips. Letting a soft chuckle pass his lips, he moved his lethargic fingers to clutch the blankets and wrap them around his still shaking frame. The fabrics seemed too thin to fight off the chill, as he turned his attention to the dying fire.

Arthur looked at the fire of the living room, and then down to the kettle where the water sloshed quietly. He took a deep breath and then steeled himself. However, the lingering effects from the kiss were still humming through his body and he thought back to the passionate moment that had suddenly been created. The kiss, their movements…Arthur shook his head quickly. _No! Bad! Don't think of that! _Arthur huffed and then stormed into the living room, throwing the kettle onto a hook over the fire. His green eyes flickered over to the firewood and he stoked it quietly, glad the only sound was the crackle of the flames. He tossed another log on and then slowly looked over to Francis.

He frowned as soon as he saw Francis shiver. Rubbing his own sweater-covered arm, Arthur walked over towards him. He bent down by the foot of the couch, pulling up a thick quilt that had fallen down earlier. He brought it over Francis' chest, hoping it would keep him warm. He looked back to the fire rather than his ocean like eyes. "Are you warm enough?"

Bringing his blue eyes up to gaze into green, Francis forced a small smile, accompanied by a hesitant nod. "G-g-getting th-ere," he rasped, gratefully taking the heavy blanket and tugging it around himself. He fought against the chills, finding it useless as his tired body tilted towards the arm of the couch.

Arthur realized his hand had been lingering on Francis' arm and pulled it away. His face became warm and he stalked off to him his tealeaves in the dark.

Heaving a soft sigh, Francis watched Arthur retreat back into the darkness once again. Had he done something wrong? Had he upset Arthur in someway? Again, he sighed, thoughts traveling back to the passion they had just shared. He shook his head, a smirk stretching his lips. Though Francis hoped he hadn't messed what tiny spark they seemed to have, he couldn't truly admit to himself that he regretted any of it.

Arthur swore loudly from the kitchen as the tea leaves still failed to show up. He glanced back to the glowing light of the living room, feeling the same swirl of guilt of leaving Francis like that. It wasn't anything he had done…it was… Arthur sighed, putting his hand on the counter and noting with surprise it was on the tea tin. He grabbed it between his calloused hands. He could hear a cough from the living room and his head shot up. "Do you still have a fever?" he called out.

Dully hearing the echoing words, France brought a shaking and cold hand up to touch his brow. He flinched at the contact, his hand freezing against his skin. He frowned, knowing that his hand was too cold to give an accurate judgment of what was happening to him. Groaning, he let his hand slide off, and pressing himself back further into the couch. Once again, ocean eyes turned back to the jumping flames. "I-I'm not s-sure," he called back, unsure if his weakening voice could reach the island nation. He tried again to stifle the shivering.

Arthur came out from the dark kitchen, the tin of leaves in his hand as he made his way to the fire. He pulled the lip off with a towel and dropped some of the leaves in. Closing the lid of the kettle and then the tin, Arthur turned back to France. He put the back of his hand onto the Frenchman's forehead and frowned. "Hm," he paused and then shook his head, tucking the blankets up further. "I think it broke, but I should get the thermometer to check." He frowned at the shivering that Francis seemed to be trying to suppress. "Do you need more blankets?"

France nodded stiffly, clutching the blankets tighter to himself, trying to work his way into the couch.

Arthur gave nod in return and then made his way towards the stairs in the dark, forgetting the flashlight in the living room. He managed, with memory, to go up the stairs and into the guest room without incident. Walking into Francis' room, Arthur groped the edges of the nightstand and dressers in search for the thermometer. He finally found it after almost pushing several of the medicine bottles over. Finally taking it into his hands he made his way to his own bedroom and ripped off the heavy blanket. He bundled it into his arms and England made his way back down the stairs.

Blue eyes watched the straw haired man turn away and adventure upstairs. Francis let his gaze travel down and up his back, taking in every inch of him. A shiver made his way down his spine, warming the pit of his stomach as his thoughts once more drifted to Arthur, and what they had been steadily on their way to doing. Had they really been that close? Would Arthur forgive him if they had? A small blush crept across his face as he thought about him and _Angleterre_ in that kind of...situation. He shook his head, taking a deep breath and for once happy for the distraction as coughing wracked his body.

Arthur stood at the mouth of the living room, hesitating to step back in. He could see Francis' face from the angle he was standing at, watching the way the umber tones of the firelight danced over his exposed skin. Questioning himself, England shifted slightly. He looked out at the windows and sighed softly at seeing the storm had quieted down to nearly a drizzle. _The power should be coming on soon_, he thought and began to walk back in. The scream of the kettle startled him slightly.

Francis jumped at the screaming kettle, flinching as the loud wail made his head throb angrily. Once again he found himself coughing, frowning when that just put more pressure on his aching head.

Taking the blanket, Arthur pulled the kettle from the fire with the corner of the fabric. He walked quickly over to the kitchen table, softly illuminated by the fire, and poured out the hot water. Wrapping the kettle inside the blanket, Arthur put it on the chair and then focused on the tea. He put a small amount of sugar in for Francis and left his plain. He then took the kettle away to the stove and draped the heated blanket over his shoulder and carried in the two cups.

In the living room, Arthur clacked both cups onto the table and then pulled the warm blanket over Francis' thin frame. With a nod of satisfaction, Arthur handed over the cup. "This should help with the fever and warm you up."

Sighing in contentment, Francis stayed motionless for a moment and allowed the warmth to seep into his chilled form. Reluctantly unfurling his arm from the tangles of blankets, he reached out to take the cup with a smile. It soon faded, as his tired muscles tried to keep control of his arm, the effort making his limb quake and tremble.

Putting his own cup down, England handed his southern neighbor the cup closer. He frowned at the trembling, wondering what was ailing him now. It was most likely fatigue from the fever, but still…. His eyes dulled slightly as he wondered when the last time Francis had eaten something. "The fever was pretty bad," he told the other. "It probably took a lot out of you." He looked to the window where he could see his own reflection in the dark glass. "I should also probably get you something to eat."

France wrapped his long thin fingers around the cup, letting the heat sink into his skin. At the mention of food, he felt himself turn green, his stomach turning heavily. Francis paused, waiting for the nausea to calm before taking a small sip of the sweet tea. "I don't know if I could keep anything down, Arthur," he admitted, clearing his throat as he kept his gaze down at the swirling cup of tea.

Watching France carefully, Arthur moved to sit down at the foot of the couch after a hesitation. "It's fine," he eventually muttered, bringing the earl grey up to his lips. "Just tell me when you can. The tea should be fine for now." He finally took a sip of the hot liquid and sighed. "Better than bloody American coffee."

A small smirk found its way back to Francis' face, slowly bringing the trembling cup up to his lips, taking a long drag of the steaming liquid. Going to take another one, he stopped as the trembling got worse. With a quiet sigh, Francis moved the cup over to rest on the arm of the couch with both hands. Once he was sure that it wouldn't tumble over, he leaned back against the cushions, closing his eyes and reclining his head. Curling the cocoon of blankets tighter around himself, he continued to fight against the shivers.

Absinthe eyes were trained on Francis' face, looking for any sign of the fever. He wondered solemnly if he needed more medicine as he watched Francis shiver.

Francis took a deep, calming breath, trying one last time to stop the shivers. The action only made his chest rattle with yet another cough. He clutched the blankets till it hurt, eager for any type of warmth. "_Merde,_" he grumbled, not intentionally saying it out loud. "_C'est froid_."

Arthur frowned deeply. He sighed and placed his cup down with a definite clack. "Come here."

"What?" Francis said, trying to keep his voice even as he opened his eyes. Confusion covered his face, reaching his tired eyes. He was exhausted and wasn't sure if he had heard Arthur correctly.

Face flushed, Arthur tugged gently at Francis' wrist. "Come here." He was never going to get warm just like that.

Francis stared at him, his mind still sluggish as he tried to understand the words. Finally, as realization dawned on him, he tried to will his muscles to move. Francis frowned when his body trembled with the small effort of trying to untangle his body from the trap of blankets he had pulled around himself. His brow furrowed in frustration as even moving an inch seemed like a monumental task.

Leaning forward quickly, Arthur snaked his arms around him and slowly pulled him close, twisting Francis so his back was flush against his chest. He sighed and tilted his head as he noticed how clammy Francis' skin was. Grabbing his sweater and lifting his arms, Arthur slid it off and left himself in the light button down he had been wearing earlier. "Put this on." He told Francis, handing him the warm material.

Francis complied with a second glance at Arthur. He tried to lean forward and do as he asked, his body trembling and aching with the task. He grumbled as the sweater became trapped over his head, though taking a moment to take a cleansing breath to calm himself. His body relaxed as the soft scent of Arthur filled his nose. Francis savored it, comfort washing over him. With a quick, helpful tug from Arthur, the sweater was finally pulled into place and France settled back again, breath puffing in exhaustion.

There was a pause of silence as Arthur wrapped the blankets over their bodies and held Francis closely. He dipped his hand under the blankets to fix his pant leg which had gotten twisted, accidentally brushing against Francis' waist. Apparently the sweater was shorter on him for he ended up grazing bare skin. Arthur mumbled a quick apology. The couch seemed to have leached away his energy and Arthur realized tiredly that he hadn't slept for a long time. It was easily early morning now and the night before he had barely slept at all, maybe an hour or two if that. His breath began to even out as he relaxed. "The storm finally quieted down," he murmured softly.

Francis leaned further into Arthur's embrace, closing his eyes as he listened to the calming storm. In fact, the gentle patter of rain against the window only continued to sooth him, the soft rumbling of the distancing storm. It seemed the weather was deciding to relax as well. "Mmm," he hummed in response, having neither the energy nor will to continue the conversation. Slowly, the tension was leached from his body, muscles warming with Arthur's body heat.

Arthur shut his eyes, enjoying the silence as his muscles finally relaxed. Unfortunately, it brought aches with them, but tantalizing sleep was enough to take the edge away. The warm body melded to him gave a sense of security and he allowed his head to lull.

Francis smiled slightly as he felt Arthur drift off into the precursor of calming sleep. Joy made its way throughout his tired body, happy that he could ease Arthur's discomfort. He knew that he would have to push him about it later, get him to admit everything. But he was too weak know to do any good; he had to make sure he was alright before he tried to fix Arthur. France gave a silent chuckle as he went over his last thought again. Fix Arthur. He sighed, opening his eyes to watch the dancing flames and the patterns they left on the ceiling. Somewhere, somehow, deep inside of him he knew that this was a turning point, for him and Arthur both.

* * *

The meeting hall for the nations was starting to be cleared after the afternoon session ended. Alfred sighed, pulling his glasses off and cleaned them with the corner of his shirt. It was a long meeting, even with the absence of their two usual commentators. Putting Texas back onto his face, Alfred looked at the two untouched seats across from him. No one had expected either nation to show up today, but it was still kind of forlorn without England or France. A blur of red from his peripheral caught his attention and America turned to look at his younger brother.

He had came back after having a short chat with Cuba (much to Alfred's ire) and was coming back to grab his meeting notes. Alfred stood up, stretching his long limbs. With a grunt, he smiled to Matthew. "Hey! Mattie! How was I?" Alfred resumed a normal posture and gestured towards the podium. "Awesome meeting, am I right?"

Canada smiled sheepishly, taking a moment to adjust his glasses. "Um...did you really need to bring up the giant robot again," he questioned, his voice no higher than a whisper.

In contrast, Alfred's was louder then normally accepted for indoors. "Of course!" He gave his brother a loving slap on the back and then slung his arm over Canada's shoulder. "It's an awesome idea you know. I can't tell why Kiku is the only one who thinks it's a good idea though." His face fell as he thought about it more.

Matthew chuckled weakly, a strained smile on his face. "Y-you're not serious," he said, his voice hopeful. "A-are you?"

When was the United States of America not serious? He poked his glasses higher on his face, it having sliding down his angular nose slightly. "Of course!" He took a seat, pulling Matthew into the seat next to him. "Hey," he started, his voice lowering and his face lowering slightly from the child like glee. "Have you heard from Artie or anything?" It had only been two or three days now, but still…a call would be nice!

The smile fell from Matthew's face, his head shaking in his own worry. "N-no, I'm kinda getting worried," he admitted, slowly wringing his hands. It wasn't like Arthur to go this long without telling them something. Had something happened? No, they would call if something had, wouldn't they?

America rolled his pen around the tabletop. "Maybe they're too busy havin' sex or somethin'."

Matthew's face erupted in a blush, violently pulling him out of his worry for a moment. "Alfred," he gasped out, his voice squeaking as he glanced about nervously. They shouldn't be speaking like this, not about Arthur and Francis.

Giving a cheeky grin, America leaned back in his chair. "What?" His tone was innocent and he watched in amusement at Matthew's deep blush. He waited another beat and then gave a dramatic sigh. "I mean, we both know Arthur and Francis both like each other so…" he trailed off seeing two other nations approach the North American brothers.

Alfred cocked his head as he watched Germany restrain a frantic Italy, like a man holding back an eager puppy. They had been walking past, but when Alfred had mentioned France, Italy had perked up.

Italy ran over to the two brother nations, an eager look on his face as he glanced between the two. "Have you heard anything from Brother France?" he asked, hands fisted by his face.

Germany held on steadily to Italy, pulling him out of Alfred and Matthew's personal space. "Herr Jones," He addressed, then paused looking to Canada. He never could remember that nation's name. It finally clicked after a second or two of thinking. "Herr Williams. We did not mean to interrupt." He tugged at Italy's shoulder again.

Italy continued to struggle against the grip of the blond haired military nation. He twisted to look up at Ludwig. "But Germany! I want to know about France nii-san and England," he whined, still trying to move inches towards the others.

Alfred held up a hand. "It's cool Ludwig." He turned to Italy with a Hollywood smile. "We were just talking about them. Haven't really heard anythin' from them, but ya'll know how they can be." He gave a smile to Germany too. "I'm sure they're fine and all." At that he gave his brother a knowing look.

Finally calming down, Italy smiled at the news. "Sah! We should go visit them," he chirped happily.

"Nein" Germany said forcefully, reeling the chipper nation back. "It would be rude to do so without invitation." He turned to America, his bright ice-blue eyes trained on the young nation. There was a nagging feeling in his mind as though he was forgetting he had been talking to someone else. "I assume England will be joining us once again?"

Italy looked between them, completely forgetting Matthew's presence, a look of worry on his face. "Sah! Is he going to leave nii-san alone?"

Alfred rubbed the back of his head, noticing that Russia was gathering his notes a short distance down the table. He frowned and then looked back to Italy and finally to his brother. "I guess so. I can only imagine he won't be all that happy though." He finally turned his attention to Italy once more. "But don't worry! I'm sure Francis will be just fine, right Mattie?

Matthew smiled reassuringly at Italy, ignoring the startled looks he got. It really got annoying when they pretended they couldn't see him. Canada nodded. "Y-yeah, but I don't think Francis will be able to join us any time soon. The doctor said he will be bedridden for quite awhile."

From down the table, Russia looked up in interest.

Germany looked in confusion at the nation not America. Who was he again? "I would imagine so. He is getting better though?"

The brown haired nation's eyes went wide as he looked up at Germany. "Bedridden," he exclaimed with a squeak. "How is he going to eat if Arthur isn't there!" He stilled for a moment, a small smile breaking out as he thought back to the survival packs he had made for himself and Germany some time ago. Italy turned to leave, an eager smile on his face. "I shall go get him supplies! I'll need pasta, sauce, bread...pasta."

Germany saw the look on his friend's face and sighed, putting his large hand over the over excited Italian's head. "I'm sure he will be fine. Herr Kirkland can be very protective." He tilted his head slightly as though lost in thought and then looked to America, about to speak, but then glanced down as the smaller nation started squiggling.

Italy looked up at him, his face worried as his eyes started to water. "But poor Brother France won't get any better if only Arthur is cooking," he cried, stomach turning at just the thought of some of Arthur's concoctions.

Matthew paled from his spot beside Alfred, beginning to feel queasy as well. "I-I forgot about that," he whispered. _What if Arthur's cooking only makes him sicker!_

Alfred frowned at the collective frowns from the mention of Arthur's cooking. He didn't get it, he liked most of the stuff (though he'd never tell him) other than the tea and scones–because really, who liked scones? "It's not that bad," he muttered to Matthew when he saw the worry forming between his brows. "I used to eat it when I was little and I'm fine. Besides, I think he said something about that before." America paused and rubbed his neck as he thought.

_Not that bad! _Matthew cried in his thoughts, again paling at the thought of the food. Well, then again, maybe he was just spoiled by having eaten Francis' cooking while he grew up. "Huh," he questioned, startled from his thoughts as they shifted to what his brother had said moments before. "Arthur did?" he added, tilting his head and adjusting his glasses.

America turned to his northern brother as though to confirm his own question. Hadn't he? Something about his neighbor or something… "I thought so," he finally told the group. "Something about Rose-someone-or-other." He stopped to think again. Maybe it was a store he went to? All he could remember was the vague mention of chicken stock being made in exchange for something. "Maybe not," he finally said looking up into his brother's eyes. Alfred looked around the room and over his shoulder, noticing that Russia was still there, and it looked like he was walking over towards them. "Maybe we should call him to check that out?"

The massive form of Russia stopped right behind Alfred's back. Alfred looked up and behind him with a frown. "Ah, brethren." Russia gave a smile that was almost child like in innocence should they have not known any better. "I heard that brother France is ill?" His dark violet eyes glinted in interest.

America began to turn around, the cold war having paranoid him enough to freaking out when the man stood so close behind him. "What do you want Braginski?" He gave a look towards his brother as though to make sure the Russian hadn't become one with him in the short time he had taken his eyes off him.

"I was just concerned for France, that is all Jones." His face brightened considerably as he looked to the nation behind Alfred's shoulder. "Ah. Matthew. I have not seen you in a while." His hands tightened intermittently on the pipe and his smile grew. "I hope you are prepared for the hockey game coming up soon, da?"

A fire erupted in Matthew's violet eyes his body tensed with anticipation. He started to push past Alfred, as though he could somehow make a hockey game start here and now. "Yes, you're on Ivan," he growled, his usually soft voice thickening as the competitiveness took over.

Without changing, Russia's smile seemed to darken to Alfred. The American frowned and crossed his arms while looking at the exchange between his brother and the crazy Russian. Really? Of all the countries possible to remember and talk to Matthew, it had to be Russia? America sighed agitatedly and looked to Russia as he began to speak.

"I hope you do not expect to win this time." He paused and gave a small hum. "I'm afraid last time was just a fluke."

Alfred turned his summer sky blue eyes onto the terse form of his brother and ally.

A snide smile crossed Matthew's face as he felt his confidence spike. He had beaten the Russian and he would do it again...and again and again. "You can keep telling yourself that Russia, if it makes you feel better."

Germany looked from Russia to Canada, and then back to America in the lull of silence that followed. He tugged on the arm of the frightened Italian and began to tactfully take a step away from the three huge nations. "Then I can expect England to be at the meeting, Jones?" he asked calmly.

America turned away and blinked. His Hollywood smile returned and Germany gave a small sigh of relief. "Uh, yeah. I mean, I guess I'll call him, but I'd imagine so." He turned back to his little brother. "He was fine when I saw him last."

The quiet and gentle nature quickly took reign over Matthew once again as the game was forgotten and worry bubbled up to take the competitiveness' place. "But the doctor said he needed to rest," he retorted, completely focused on his brother.

Germany nodded, feeling the swell of tension rising between America and Russia as they stared at each other. It never boded well when they faced against each other. "We'll be taking our leave then." He let go of Italy who ran out quickly, following behind him stoically.

"Yeah, but I don't really think that these meeting are exactly intense, right?" He ignored the two European nation's departures, rather focusing on his brother.

He bristled when he realized that the lurking nation hadn't left…or moved and it was freaking Alfred out having him stand behind him. He finally turned around fully, standing in front of his brother. "Is there anything else Commie?"

Russia's smile faded and then came back warmly. "Ah, there was one thing I wanted to ask you America." He placed his briefcase down and began to play with the pipe in his hands, a small tap coming from them as the metal slapped against his palm.

"Yeah?"

Canada bristled beside him, not liking the look or tone that hinted at the danger emanating off of Russia. A chill ran up his spine as he turned to look at Alfred with pleading violet eyes. "Maybe we should leave Alfred," he whispered, trying to keep the stutter from his voice.

Alfred ignored his brother, something feral leaking into the normally warm blue eyes. He felt his brother tug at his elbow and America gave him a look that clearly said 'heroes don't run'.

Russia on the other hand seemed to be as relaxed as though he were at the beach. He gave a lazy smile to the two North American brothers. "Yes, something very curious happened to my dear little sister." Russia's smile disappeared suddenly. "Odd you could say."

Matthew felt himself pale as he remembered what Alfred had told him of his adventure in the hospital with Francis and Arthur. Apparently Belarus had gone too far, and had even managed to get Japan into an argument over the way she provoked a weakened Arthur. He asked her if she was messing with Arthur on purpose and when she calmly and almost happily said yes, had seized her by the collar and punched her hard in the nose. Though he couldn't help but feel proud of his brother's actions, he knew that with Russia being Belarus' big brother anything like this would not be good. Matthew gave Alfred's arm a tug. "Alfred, really, we should go."

Alfred stood his full height against the Russian. He knew damn well what the communist bastard was going on about. Normally, he would have sided with Russia just on the basis of a guy hitting a girl…but in this case it was different. She deserved it completely and Alfred really didn't feel all that bad about it. "And what might that have been?" he asked Russia, playing ignorance and pulled away from Matthew once more.

Russia stilled and a small ghost of a smirk fell onto his pale lips. "She somehow managed to have her nose broken. In a hospital too. Wouldn't you agree how strange that was?"

America gave a look to Matthew, the brothers silently communicating and Alfred stuck himself firmly between Canada and Russia, not backing down slightly. "If you have something to say Braginski…" he trailed off and his hand fell down to his jacket, moving the end slightly so the sheen of metal was seen. Russian roulette anyone?

Violet eyes glanced uneasy between the two. He brought a shaking hand up to clasp on his brother's shoulder, giving him a small squeeze. "Alfred, don't," he whispered, wishing for once that he was invisible.

"You should listen to Comrade Matvey," Russia twirled the pipe slowly, the metal giving soft whistle as it cut through the air. "I was just finding it funny how you were around her when it happened."

America frowned. Tattle tale.

Russia continued in the dangerous calm of his voice. "But I know you wouldn't have harmed her when you are so eager to become one with Russia, da?"

For a long, terse moment, neither superpower moved. Russia and America locked eyes, both daring each other and should any other nation have walked in, they would have thought they were back to the cold war due to the intensity level. To Alfred's surprise, Russia coiled back and he couldn't help but think of a wolf that had found easier prey in the distance.

Russia returned to moving the pipe in his hands, turning to grab the bag he had left on the table. "I will be seeing you later Canada." His smile was as bright as a child on Christmas. America watched him warily. "I look forward to seeing you later too, America." Watching the large man stalk away, America wondered if he was going to kick a basket of puppies…or club a seal, maybe steal food from a orphan? He shook his head and looked to Canada as soon as he was sure the other nation was long gone. He let out a breath and rubbed at the bridge of his nose.

Canada looked up at him, the whole situation stressing his already stressed body. His head felt light and he was sure he was ghostly pale now. "Why did you have to punch Belarus, Alfred?" he groaned.

America gave him a look as though his brother had just asked him why he ate hamburgers. She had attacked his family! The man who raised him! No one got away with that, not even Russia. "She was antagonizing Arthur," he said angrily, though it was directed at the crazy northern nation rather then his peaceful (sane) brother. "I wasn't going to let that stand, even if she was a girl."

"B-b-but she's Russia's sister," he blurted out, flushing slightly at feeling stupid for stating the obvious.

With another look to his brother, Alfred finished gathering all his papers, muttering something inaudible under his breath.

Matthew just continued to stare at his brother in disbelief. Was he mad? Even for Alfred, picking a fight with Russia was not a good idea. Sure Belarus deserved it but...but still! "I'm s-serious Alfred, it's dangerous."

Alfred turned, sliding his glasses back up with a push of his finger and gave his brother a smile. It was cute when Mattie was worried for him. "Hey, no sweat!" He stuffed the papers away carelessly. "I'm a hero remember? There's no way he'd go after me like that anyway, I think we both realized after the cold war to take a chill-pill anyways." At least, America hoped so.

"I-I'm not saying she didn't deserve it," Canada replied quickly, a darkness taking over his features, though quickly being chased away. "It's just..." he paused, unsure if he could say anything that would dissuade his brother. "...just be careful with them," he relented with a sigh.

With a pat of Mattie's back, Alfred gave another bright smile, rolling his eyes a bit. "Psh. You worry too much Mattie!" He stretched his taunt limbs. "Want to grab lunch?"

Matthew couldn't help but start at the random suggestion, though he had a feeling he knew exactly what their lunch would consist of. "U-uh yeah," he mumbled back, taking a moment to gaze about. The room was empty of all other people, and he couldn't help but feel uneasy that he hadn't seen where the Russian had gone. "W-where did Russia r-run off to?"

Alfred began to walk around the table to the door. "Who knows what that communist bastard does in his spare time. Probably terrorizes puppies or something…or Latvia." He gave his brother an open look. "Why, you scared or somethin'?"

Shifting nervously from one foot to another he continued his fruitless search. "N-no, it's...it's just..." he paused and took a deep breath. Why couldn't shake this foreboding feeling twisting in his gut. "I have a bad feeling is all."

Alfred tilted his head, looking questioningly at Canada. "Bad feeling, huh?" He tried to lighten up his brother's foul mood and gave a laugh. "What, me kicking his ass to kingdoms come?"

The northern brother shook his head slowly, trying to make Alfred see the seriousness of which he was trying to speak. "N-no, it's just...I think we should keep an eye on him," he replied, turning his gaze up to meet his brother's. A small frown marred his face as he saw nothing of the focus that he was trying to pull from the other.

America gave another smile, waiting by the door for his brother to join. "I can take care of myself Matt. I really don't think he's going to do anything though." He swung his arm over Canada's shoulder when he came close. "You worry too much," he assured him gently

Matthew let his head bow, a worried expression taking over his features. "It's not you I'm worried about," he grumbled, his voice no higher than a whisper.

"Aw come on, what could possibly happen? Anyway, let's get lunch. My treat." Alfred patted his brother's back again and walked out into the hall.

Casting one last look over his shoulder, Matthew almost expected to see the scarf-ed nation creeping around in the shadows. "A-alright," he muttered. But he couldn't shake this feeling that something horrible was going to happen.

* * *

Please review! Chapter nine is almost done being written so that should come out shortly. Thanks for sticking with the story!_Chris

Enter Russia: Stage left ^-^ as promised! _Kage


	9. Chapter 9

Hello all! I hope you are all very well and enjoying summer!Lord knows I am...it stays very cold up here in the North! So here is chapter nine! I hope you will all be loving this as much as I had fun writing and planning this with Kage. This was actually 30+ pages, but we edited it to two different chapters. I just wanted to let you know how much I am grateful for you sticking up with us to this point, I went back and read the original part of out story (which was never intended to become a fanfic BTW) and realized how much better we have become as writes just from this meager (colossal) story. So thank you all very much and thank you for the reviews!

_Chris

SAH! But Chris! The next chapter was supposed to be the fun one to write! *Pout* Now I have to wait another chapter to force you to write the...fun stuff! You are going to be soooo red in the face afterwards! It's funny when you blush! (Sh-shut up! *swats with frying pan*-chis) ^dodges while giggling^ But really guys, thanks for the awesome reviews. Glad to know some people like it. You're all awesome for reading XD

_Kagebecks27

* * *

France sat comfortably on Arthur's couch, taking a delicate sip of his iced tea, his blue eyes continued to roam over the pages of the worn blue covered book before him. Blindly, he placed the cool glass back on the side table as he had done many times in the last few days. He paused, looking up from the pages of his historical fiction (yes he did enjoy historical fiction) he looked down at the spot on the floor right below him. Francis couldn't fight the smile, which soon graced his lips as his thoughts traveled back to the kiss that had taken place only a week ago. He had gotten stronger since then– well, they both had. He could now walk around on his own, though only for short spurts, but he felt himself getting stronger each day. Arthur seemed to have calmed down and relaxed, and he seemed to be sleeping better.

Francis turned his eyes back to the pages, a sigh leaving his body as he rubbed the condensation off his hand and onto his jeans. It felt good to be back in normal clothes again, not that he hadn't enjoyed his little stint in...comfortable clothes, but he didn't like the weakness and overall tiredness that it brought with them. Laying the paperback down once again, he stretched to keep his body from knotting. Taking special care with his shoulder, he was pleased that the movement brought no pain with it. Yes, he was healing well, in more ways then one.

From the staircase, Arthur fumbled with his navy blue tie, his mind on other things rather then the deftness of his fingers. "Alright," he began, a sigh pulsing through his lips with each slow step down. "So I should be there at the meeting until two." He turned the corner to look to France, his ocean eyes flitting up in response. "If there should be any emergency, you can call me or my neighbor Rosalind." He thought of the grizzled maternal baker and ex army officer who lived adjacent from him, knowing full well that should anything happen she would be here before he could yell 'fire'. He looked down to Francis as he stopped at the foot of the couch.

Francis looked up at him, his golden hue coming back with his newly recovered strength. He smiled encouragingly, knowing how nervous Arthur had been ever since getting the call about attending this meeting. To think that he wanted to have his kind, though somewhat scary, neighbor come over and baby-sit him was where he drew the line. "I'm fine Arthur, stop worrying so much," he hummed, reaching out to grasp his drink once again. He was perfectly able to take care of himself for a couple hours. He wasn't some invalid, well, not anymore.

Arthur still fumbled with his tie, not parting from Francis' gaze. "Yes…well." At that he looked down to the tie and silently fumed at it. "It's in my nature to worry."

A deep chuckle passed France's lips as he watched him struggle. He took a pointed sip before unwrapping a finger from the glass and pointing it towards Arthur. "Do you need some help with that," he teased playfully, tilting his head at him.

England looked up wildly, "Wh-No! I can do my own tie, thank you." He fingered it slightly and then pulled it tight, not caring that it was crooked. He looked around nervously, like a rabbit, and wondered if he was forgetting something. He blinked and looked down to the couch when Francis shifted lightly. "Now, all the phone numbers should be beside the phone…" he trailed off as he walked towards the kitchen. "Why everyone puts it on the fridge, I'll never know." He turned back, deciding to stay in the living room and walked to the windows to make sure they were locked. "And your medicine should be on the kitchen table."

Guiding the cup back to the table once again, making sure he placed it on a coaster so as not to maim Arthur's prime wood. His blue eyes continued to scan the black script on the ivory pages. "Yes Arthur," he muttered, his tone bored though also lighthearted.

Arthur hesitated at the entrance of the room. He bit down of his lip and then glanced at the door not far away. "Alright then, I suppose I'll be off then." He grabbed his suit jacket, putting it on slowly.

Francis leaned his head back so it rested against the couch's arm, a reassuring smile on his face, his golden locks fanning out. "I'll be fine, have a good time at the meeting," he cooed softly, giving him a mischievous wink.

Face turning a hue of red, Arthur turned slightly, away, only glancing out of the corner of his eye. He gave a snort. "Right. It'll be quite the rambunctious and joyful meeting." He frowned and fiddled with his shirt cuffs. "Are you sure you'll be fine?" England couldn't help the concern from leaking into his voice.

Heaving a sigh, France sat himself back up and reached for the glass again, unable to do much else to calm Arthur. "For the hundredth time, yes," he replied, his voice lacking the expected annoyance. The way Arthur was fretting over him was cute. Another chuckle broke free before he could sip his drink. He raised the glass in a toast, the ice cubes clinking against the sides. "I'm on the way to perfect health because of your amazing care," he hummed. It was true; he only wished someday he could help Arthur like he had helped him.

With a blush, Arthur walked over to the couch again, hesitating for a moment. He bent down, giving Francis a quick peck and began to walk towards the door. "I've got to go, or I'll be late."

Francis looked after him with a smile. "Alright, I'll be here," he replied, pausing to hold up the paper book. "Reading." He wagged it in the air a little. Honestly, he needed to relax.

Arthur nodded, turning his gaze to his over coat as he slipped it on, pulling his car keys off a rack and slipping them into his pocket with his wallet. He took a look outside and grabbed his sturdiest umbrella from the metal stand. "Until later then," he said softly. England gave one last long look out to the living room and then left the house, closing and locking the door behind him before he ran to his car to evade the heavy drops of rain.

France listened to the door close and shook his head as he turned to gaze back at the book. Of course with the number of times going back and forth, he was completely out of the storyline. Laying the book on his chest, he curled an arm behind his head as he started to doze. Arthur's house was comfortable and cozy. He didn't know how long he would be kept here, but seeing how some of his clothes had found his way into the dresser upstairs, he doubt that Arthur thought it would be anytime soon. A yawn crept up his throat, the usual tiredness which came from the drain that normal tasks still zapped from him, was quickly taking over.

* * *

Unbeknownst to either England or France, a danger was hiding out in the shadow of the rain across the street. As soon as Arthur's car passed down the street and disappeared from sight, the lurker left the tree he had been standing behind. Russia gave a smile, walking across the street lazily and up the short pathway to the door. It was time to recruit a nation to become on with Russia, and he thought France was perfect for that right now. He adjusted his scarf slightly, not liking how the wet fabric scraped against his neck, but ignored it as he tried opening the door. The handle rattled slightly and he shifted the large heavy pipe into his other hand.

Francis was dragged from his near napping, giving a small groan as he tried to blink the drifting haze of sleep away. Pushing himself up and stifling a yawn as he put his book on the table and swung his legs around. Easing himself to his feet, he paused to stretch himself out, unsure exactly how long he had been lying on the couch. Moving slowly about, he found his way to the front door, glancing up to key hooks and seeing a pair of house keys dangling left behind. "Did you forget your key, Arthur?" he mused allowed as he undid the latch. He pulled it open, a small smile on his face.

Russia looked down as the door opened, watching in interest as the smaller man's lazy smile froze and slipped away, taking the pallor of his skin with it. Russia twisted the pipe in his hands lightly placing his foot in the doorway before France thought of closing it. "Francis Bonnefoy, feeling better?" His brilliant violet eyes lit up.

Francis felt lightheaded, fear turning his stomach, skin, no his whole body cold. He gasped, weakly trying to close the door, eyes wide. "R-Russia!" he rasped, a large lump forming in his throat.

The great northern nation put his hand on the door, taking a step into the house. He smiled down, amused by the pitiful attempt to throw him out. "You seem to be better, though I happen to know one way for you to be better completely." He took another large step inside, the water dripping off his coat and onto the floor in a puddle.

Giving up on trying to shut him out, Francis backed away, his body trembling as he tried to keep himself upright. The fear was stealing all that he had, his body still weak and not completely used to standing on his own. "You're not s-supposed to be here, R-Russia," he stuttered, his voice failing him. What was he doing here? He knew the answer but wasn't sure he really wanted to find out. One step after another, his socked feet constantly catching on the rug and anything else they could find.

Russia gave another chilling smile. "Maybe not, but I can't ignore your ill health…especially for what is to come." Another step was taken and the pipe swung like a pendulum, ticking slowly for France's fate.

Quickly Francis was loosing ground, unable to put enough distance between them. He gasped as he felt his back hit a wall, unable to react fast enough to get away before one of Russia's hand slammed next to his head to stop France from making his escape. Hesitantly, he brought his gaze to meet Ivan's, recoiling as he felt Russia's warm breath ghosted his face. "W-what are you t-talking about," he whispered, fear stealing his voice.

With a quiet chuckle, Russia answered. "Becoming one with Russia, da?"

* * *

In his car, Arthur frowned, realizing that he had forgotten his briefcase on the staircase back home. He sighed in aggravation, stopping the car in the empty road and turning around. England lifted his hand to his mouth, swearing in agitation as he drove with one hand. Great. The first day back and he'd be late. "Damn it," he said softly, watching as cars sped past in the direction he should have been going. Francis wasn't going to let him live this down.

With a sigh as he finally pulled into his street, Arthur looked from the trees and sparse houses and finally trained his eyes onto his own. He pulled into the driveway and parked the car. Reaching over, he grabbed his umbrella and jumped out, however, England stilled from opening the sturdy old umbrella and gazed at his open front door. He had locked it, he was sure of it.

Confusion settled into his mind for only a moment before the fear replaced it and he took off running into his home.

* * *

Francis gasped as he tried futilely to get air into his lungs. Both his hands came to claw and grasp the single gloved hand that had his throat in an iron grip. He felt his legs kick the air as he was lifted just a little higher off the ground; Russia smiling as he pressed France's back harder against the wall. A small bruise was already forming on his cheek, his lips swelling and red from where Russia had backhanded him when he had first refused...what he wanted.

Russia chuckled again when he felt the feeble hands try to pry his fingers away. "Now, now France. I don't wish to hurt you, but the more you resist, the more I have to help you." His fingers clenched down more on the weak nation's neck.

All the air he had managed to suck down, escaped his lips in a hard gasp. Francis was rapidly becoming dizzy; he could feel his lips turning blue. He could barely move his hands, as his fight to pull the hand away became harder and harder to do. He could feel blackness encroaching on his vision and there was nothing he could do to stop it. France tried to buck his legs one last time, trying desperately not to give in.

"You should just relax," Russia said with a smile, watching as France was slowly asphyxiated.

Arthur had his hand gripped tightly around the heavy wooden handle of the umbrella, as he brandished it like a rapier. He stood at the mouth of the hall, his body outlined by the light of the open front door. His eyes narrowed into dangerous slits as he looked on. Anger and horror mixed through his body. "Francis!"

Francis cracked an eye open, trying to see where the voice had come from, fighting the blurring that was robbing his sight. His vision was tunneling, till all that was clear was Arthur standing at the doorway. _Arthur, get out of here_, he pleaded in his thoughts, trying one last time to fight against Russia and keep his attention. His body became lethargic and unresponsive as his muscles went slack.

Arthur took another step forward, anger burning though his eyes and his body tensed, like a dog raising its hackles. He grit his teeth together, jaw clenched as he glared at Russia. "Let him go Russia!" he growled.

Russia turned slightly, only gracing the Englishman with a look from his eyes. "Nyet."

Arthur lunged at him, taking his umbrella and cracking it against the giant nation's face. His body followed through with the lunge, knocking Russia away from Francis and forcing him to take several steps back.

Francis collapsed to the floor, cough after cough escaping his chest as he fought to breath in air. His lungs burned, his eyes tearing as he took a shaky breath. France's vision cleared enough to make out Arthur's form standing protectively in front of him. "A-Arthur, c-care-ful," he croaked out, his throat on fire. One of his trembling hands found its way up to his throat, wincing as he tried to swallow, the small motion pained him as he brushed his fingers against the hand printed bruise quickly forming against his pale skin.

Arthur didn't look down to Francis, he instead kept his eyes on Russia as the man straightened up, coming to his full towering height. Arthur kept his ground in front of Francis, his face set in a murderous glare. Russia picked his pipe from the wall where it had been leaning against. There was a beat of silence and suddenly the pipe swung out at an inhuman speed, nearly cracking against Arthur's ribs as he brought the umbrella up to parried it. "You will regret that Kirkland," Russia said calmly, swinging the pipe out to strike at England's head.

Arthur ducked. "Like hell I will." He turned and swiped out at Russia with the umbrella, trying to hit his sternum. Suddenly, Russia grasped the umbrella and yanked it, pulling Arthur towards him and then slammed the handle of the umbrella into Arthur's chest, crashing him into the wall.

Like a snake after his prey, Ivan was suddenly on England's chest, pressing his pipe against him and barring him to the wall. England's eyes burned with aggression, the fire of anger suddenly roaring through his veins. He tried to pull the pipe away, but Russia was too strong.

"I do not lie, England. You are much weaker than I am." Russia gave a smile and Arthur narrowed his eyes, a feral look passing through the normally calm absinthe eyes. It might have been true, that only America was close to the strength of the giant Arctic nation, but right now England really didn't care.

"Fuck off," he hissed, and brought his knee up to smash Russia's upper thigh. The other nation saw the movement however, and in a lightning quick movement, Russia threw him roughly to the floor.

Arthur swore as his head cracked against the wood, vision turning to stars for a second before he saw Russia looming over him once again, the pipe held deftly between his hands.

Blue eyes watched the events pass before him, anger and furry shooting throughout his veins, bringing back strength from his oxygen deprived lungs. He hurt, pained all over, but not as much as he would do to Russia if he hurt Arthur. Francis stumbled to his feet, pushing himself up the wall with his hands. His legs quaked with the effort; keeping his sight clear was taxing. Breath coming in pants, hoarse and quick as he turned his fiery glower boring into Russia, vexation and seething dripping off him.

Arthur swore as he watched the Russian bring the pipe down, aiming for Arthur's head. He managed to turn away, but the blow still glanced across his face, sending a short moment of pure crippling pain. He blinked away the spots and spat out the blood pooling in his mouth as Russia brought the pipe to his throat, effectively shutting off the air he had been gasping for.

"I would not do that," Russia growled and Arthur used all his strength to pull the pipe away. It was removed and as England pulled in a choked breath, Russia planted his boot over Arthur's neck. He looked up at the grinning man, his teeth bloody in a snarl despite being pinned down. He kicked his legs, trying to strike at Russia as he saw the pipe rising up to swipe at Arthur again.

Francis pushed himself forward, teeth barred as a growl emanated from his throat, looking more animal than human. He stumbled forward the few steps he needed, his long arm reaching out and seizing the pipe in his left hand, his right hand already balling into a fist. "No you don't, Ivan," he snarled, taking a step back with his right foot, giving the pipe another tug. Francis watched as Russia turned to face him, an amused smile on his lips. His whole body was trembling with rage, waiting as long as he could before whipping his body around and swinging his fist forward. His eyes were electrifying, narrowed as his fist connected with Russia's jaw. Pain ripped through his hand and up his arm, but he kept pushing harder. His own body twisted with the blow, following as Russia stumbled backwards and off of Arthur.

Arthur began to cough, the air now flowing back into his grateful lungs and he blinked rapidly. He rolled away, getting to his feet quickly to lunge for his briefcase on the stairs. His gun was in there and he knew it would be the only thing to fight off Russia.

Francis stumbled to regain his balance, continuing to glare furiously at Russia as he righted himself. He could hear Arthur coughing in the distance, relief edging into him, making him more determined than ever to keep Russia's attention. _He can do what he wants to me, but I'm not going to let him get anywhere near Arthur again_, he thought viciously. "Leave _Angleterre_ out of this," he demanded with a growl, clenching his fists at his side and noting distantly that his right hand wasn't complying.

Russia touched his cheek for a moment, before grinning at France. "Good, good," he purred, happy that there was a little resistance to their fight and kicked out at Francis' legs, making the Frenchman fall to the ground. He got to his knees, grabbing hold of Francis and lifted him up as he stood, slamming him harshly into the wall. A bit of plaster dusted them as the wall cracked.

"A fight is good." Russia said. He tilted his head to the side and his grin grew darker. "But you cannot win." His hand coiled back and then punched Francis viciously, knocking the man out. He dropped him like discarded trash. "Nyet. You cannot." He bent down, grabbing his discarded pipe.

"Don't take another step, Russia. I'll shoot." The click of the safety coming off was enough to send Russia to look at England standing at the front of the hall. Both hands were on the gun and England's eyes clearly spoke that if he didn't comply, he would have no problem shooting Russia in the head.

Ivan looked at him carefully for a moment. "That would not be enough to kill me."

"No," Arthur growled, "but it would hurt like bloody fuck. Now step away and get the fuck out of my house." Arthur's finger rested on the trigger in warning.

Russia stood up fully, the smile fading from his lips. He began to walk towards the door, while Arthur's gun stayed trained on the Russian's head. He stopped at the front door however, the pipe coming to his lips where Arthur's blood was flecked. "I will see you at the meeting later then." Russia gave a smile in response to Arthur's venomous glare and walked into the rain while humming a light tune.

Arthur waited for the Russian to get to the street before slamming the door close and locking it. He put the safety back on and stowed the gun in his pocket, stumbling over to where Francis lay in concern. "Damn it!" he swore softly, looking over Francis' wounds and bruises with darting eyes. He knelt down, putting his hand on the unconscious man's shoulder. "Francis! Are you alright?" He gave him a small shake.

Francis's eyelids twitched as a groan left his lips. Slowly he roused into consciousness, eyes fluttering open as he tried to cement himself in wakefulness. "Arthur?" he muttered questionably, waiting for his vision to stop swimming. Suddenly he realized what had happened. _Merde! How long was I unconscious for_, he thought worriedly, pushing himself up and looking around wildly. "W-where's Russia?" he demanded, gritting his teeth as he leaned some of his weight on his right hand.

Arthur sat on the floor, coming down to Francis' level. "Gone. Are you alright?"

Bringing his left hand up to cautiously stroke his cheek, he tenderly probed the worsening bruise forming on his cheek and jaw. His fingers found their way to his swelling lip, feeling a shallow cut weeping blood. He took his hand away, staring at the traces of blood on his skin. "I-I'm fine," he muttered, flinching as talking stretched his lips and jaw.

Arthur gave him a level gaze. "No, you're not." He stood up, offering his hand to France. "Let's get that bruise iced." He could feel his own head aching and sighed.

Francis took the offered hand with his left hand, trying to hide his sore hand from Arthur till he could look at it. There was no need to scare Arthur any more than he already had.

Arthur pulled him up, and he knew his face was grim and his body was still buzzing from the fight and the need to protect. He pulled Francis behind him and set him down in the kitchen as he searched for ice in the freezer. He finally plucked them out and wrapped the packs in cloth before handing one to Francis, placing his own onto his cheek and mouth while looking for a rag to clear the blood away.

France couldn't help but bat Arthur's hand away when he reached to wipe the small trickle of blood running down his chin, taking care to use only his left hand. He moved his right hand to dangle it off the table to prevent Arthur from seeing it. "Get some ice on yourself, Arthur, I'm alright here," he muttered, before pressing the pack back to his jaw, it quickly becoming numb.

With a frown, England sat down in the chair opposite him, moving the icepack from his face to his throat and then back to his face. His ribs felt sore from the jab with the umbrella, but he ignored it as he watched France carefully. He gave a soft hiss as he grazed his temple, knowing there would be a bruise there tomorrow. "What the hell happened?" he asked, wondering how Russia got inside.

Freezing, Francis tried to calm his thoughts, clearing his throat as he shifted the ice a little lower so it touched his lip. _How had he gotten in? Oh that's right, I was stupid_. He bowed his head, ashamed as he felt Arthur's stare pressing him for an explanation. "I guess I started to doze right after you left. I heard someone at the door and saw the house keys still on the hook so," he paused to sigh at his own stupidity. "I thought you had forgotten your keys so I went to let you in," he finished quickly. Francis thought he could stop there, but with Arthur still silent and staring he had to continue. He didn't know when telling England things became so easy, like he was always loose lipped around him.

"It was Russia at the door. He forced his way in and started rambling about...about...becoming one with him," he muttered quickly, flinching at the memory of Russia's child like smile. The look turned his stomach, making a cold sweat breaking out over his skin. The golden haired nation let his ice pack drop to the table as he moved to rub at brow, moving to pinch the bridge of his nose. "I said no of course, so he slammed me against the wall." His left hand trailed its way down to his brightly bruised neck, cringing at feeling Russia's hand on him. "I kept saying no. The _Russe foutu_ thought that choking me would somehow get me to agree… and well," he paused looking away from the absinthe eyes. "You know the rest."

Arthur clenched his hand. Now that Francis was fine, most of the worry was slowly burning to anger– at Russia mostly. "You opened the door for him," Arthur repeated and shook his head, stopping quickly when the motion sent his vision spinning. He opened and shut his mouth, a rant threatening to work past his lips. He had been petrified for Francis, and all the energy was squirming in his stomach. The memory at the sight of Russia choking France sent a bolt of furry through Arthur and his hands clenched again.

Francis continued to hang his head, a curtain of blond hair blocking his eyes from Arthur's view. His left hand fell to the table, gently pushing the ice pack so it rested "casually" against his right hand. His eyes jumped at seeing how it had already started to balloon with swelling. This was his fault, if he was awake and smart enough to check who it was before opening the door then this wouldn't have happened. "I know it was idiotic, even insane, but you hadn't been gone for long at all," he paused, knowing that these were just excuses. He had placed himself in harms way, even worse– put the man he loved in danger. He could never forgive himself for that. "I saw the keys and...I really thought it was you."

England let out a pent up stream of frustration. He gave a long hissing sigh and looked at Francis. "You're a bloody idiot sometimes." He put his head in his hand, covering his eyes.

"I know," France admitted, flinching at the cool accusation. He was an idiot, more than he liked to admit.

Looking away from Francis, Arthur turned to look at the ceiling. He knew it wasn't France's fault– he probably would have done the same thing. Besides, it wasn't like he asked Russia to come over to asphyxiate him. He was just scared. He was scared because no matter what he could have done, Russia would have found a way to get to him. And maybe he would come back when Arthur was gone once more and finish him off – or become one with him. He was scared, but he wasn't going to admit it. Not now. England looked to France again, wanting to say something comforting, but knew that it would only turn out as anger. He dropped his head to the table in defeat.

Francis frowned but used the opportunity to move the ice and take another look at his hand. He inched it into better light, shying away as he saw that it had swollen even more around the knuckles, and sickly bruises began spreading across his pristine skin. Taking a risk, he tried to flex his hand, biting back a grunt as the smallest movement he could do had pain shooting up his hand in white jolts. Francis quickly covered it again with the ice, pressing on it and hoping the cold numbness would soon come. He turned his ocean gaze up at the nation before him; worry churning him as he saw the bruise forming on his temple. "Are you alright, Arthur?"

Looking up, Arthur touched his head where Russia had grazed him with the pipe. If he hadn't moved he probably wouldn't have been unconscious for a long time. He glanced to Francis' eyes "Aside from the heart attack and a busted lip?" he asked with a shrug. "I think so." He could have added bruised ribs, possible concussion, and bruised throat. He looked to Francis, noticing that the icepack had moved to his right hand. "Why are you icing your hand?"

Starting, Francis moved his left arm to shield it away from Arthur's view. _Imbécile_, he thought to himself. He had forgotten to hide it from Arthur, again. He looked down at his hand, trying to force surprise into his face. "Oh, that. It's a little sore is all," he said smoothly, brain racing to think of another topic to go off about.

Arthur gave a halfhearted glare, moving forward slightly as he sat up. "Let me see."

Immediately Francis pulled back, pulling his hand back to his chest while waving his left hand at Arthur, trying to appear as casual and relaxed as possible. "No Arthur, it's fine, nothing to worry about," he replied a little too quickly.

"And the more you protest, the more I know something is wrong. Now let me see it or I just might knock you out myself." He hesitated after the poor attempt at humor and sighed softly. "Let me see your hand, please?"

The blond nation groaned internally while hesitating. It wasn't fair when Arthur used those bunny eyes on him, it just wasn't. Oh well, at least he was not using French. Reluctantly, he scooted himself forward and peeled the ice bag away, hesitating again before gently presenting the colorful hand.

Arthur took it gently, and with experienced fingers, deftly probed at the flesh while still locked onto Francis' face. Seeing a flicker of pain behind the blue eyes, Arthur looked down to the bright swollen flesh. He brushed against it, feather light, and let go with a frustrated sigh. He looked towards the door and stood up. "Come on. Let's go to the hospital. I'm sure something is broken." Back to the hospital. Hooray.

Francis frowned and remained sitting, grumbling as he replaced the bag of ice. He didn't like how familiar he was becoming with that hospital. They had been there only a few days ago to remove the stitches from his shoulder, but it seemed like only this morning. "I'm sure it's fine," he replied aggravated, trying not to pout like a child. "It just needs to be iced." Sure that the ice would balance on his hand, his left came up to rub at his bruising neck. That was another thing he didn't want the world to see anytime soon.

Arthur was too drained from all that had happened and simply placed his hand on Francis' shoulder, fingers ghosting over the nape of his neck. "_Sil té plait_?" he asked, his voice was a little hoarse.

Immediately Francis' frown intensified as he felt his heart leap at the words. He loved hearing Arthur speak French, no matter how choppy or absurd it was. Often, he found himself doing whatever the man asked of him when he did. He sighed, bringing his legs under him to stand. "It is unfair when you use French, Arthur," he complained, using his left arm to cradle his hand tightly to his chest.

"I know." He gave a small smile, patting his shoulder and then walked away slowly. "I'll grab your coat and you just keep icing it."

France grumbled to himself, wondering exactly when Arthur had figured out his weakness. Oh that's right, about three days ago, when he was bugging France about remaining bedridden for another day. He pushed his legs to stand, but the exhaustion of pushing himself so much today and the fact that he was starved of oxygen to the point where he had almost passed out make his body weak. Just as he was about to full height, his knees buckled beneath him and he tumbled back into the chair, nearly toppling himself from that as well. "_Merde_!" came his angered and annoyed cry. He took a few deep breaths to calm down, no use getting worked up so easily.

Arthur pivoted around quickly, cursing his own stupidity of not thinking of the other man's strength. "_Désolé_," he murmured and came to Francis' side. He moved in well practiced steps– linking his arm under his, pulling him up and allowing nearly all the weight of the Frenchman to fall onto his own frame. They took slow steps to the door and Arthur glanced at the cracked wall when they passed by.

France glanced at it as well, shaking his head slightly and watching as bits of plaster fell from his hair. Sighing and frowning again, something that seemed to be happening a lot today, he glared down at his own frame. "_C'est ridicule_," he growled, flinched as it sent sparks of pain down his throat.

"What is?" Arthur questioned, setting him down on the stairs and moved to grab their coats.

"I'm back to being helpless," he muttered quietly, his hand finding its way to his cheek and then jaw. Even grazing it hurt, it must be one hell of a bruise. He had the feeling that he would not want to look in the mirror anytime soon.

As Arthur walked towards the hall closet, he stopped as he looked down to his once sturdy umbrella. There was a sharp dent in the center, curving the rod from where he had protected himself against Russia. He bent down and picked it up, the poor umbrella mangled beyond use. He then blinked upon realizing the inhuman strength of Russia. If the pipe had connected with his head, there would be a dent just like this in his skull. Arthur shuddered and let it drop, looking back to the man who had stopped the blow. "Thank you."

Francis looked up at him confused. Why had Arthur just thanked him? "What?" he asked before he could stop himself.

He pointed to the dented umbrella, before toeing it against the wall where he wouldn't trip over it. He'd throw it away later. England paused to grab their coats from the closet and returned to face France. "That would have been my head if you hadn't stopped him. He gave Francis his coat and looked at the door. "So…thank you."

Staring at the clothing in the outstretched hand, Francis thought about the twisted metal. What if that really had been Arthur's head? He felt his skin green at the thought, and he quickly brought his gaze up to meet the emerald eyes, to make sure that everything was where it should be. His eyes flickered to the bruising and busted lip, nearly in the same place as the still healing ones that he had given the Englishman himself. "R-really? Well if you hadn't been here" He flinched at the thought. _I might have been lost_, he thought grimly to himself. "I don't want to think about what would have happened," he finished in a whisper, casting his eyes down.

Arthur gave a smile, but it was graveyard humor. "You'd probably be speaking Russian and eating borscht." He pulled his own coat on once more. "Can you get your coat on?" he asked, looking down to Francis curiously.

Francis snaked his left arm into the coat's sleeve, pausing as he debated on whether or not to risk getting his hand trapped in the fabric. With a groan and scowl, he merely draped the coat over his shoulder, tugging it closed. "_Bâtards Russes_," he growled out.

England frowned, helping him up gently. They stood in front of the door for a moment and Arthur unlocked it. With a hesitation, he opened the door, swinging it quickly and moving his hand to hover over the gun still resting in his pocket. Seeing no threat of danger, and feeling a look from Francis, Arthur began to walk out, locking the door behind them and then made their way slowly to the car. They stopped again in front of the car and Arthur opened it for Francis, helping him sit down and then shutting the door. As he walked behind the small car to get to the driver side, he surveyed the neighborhood around him as he looked for the Russian. Seeing nothing again, he slipped into the car and turned it on as soon as he pulled out the keys from his coat pocket.

He buckled himself up and seeing that Francis had done so too, pulled the car from the driveway and began to the road. They drove in terse silence for a few minutes and Arthur continually looked over his shoulder to make sure no one was following them. Maybe it was a little paranoid, but he didn't care. He swore when his phone vibrated, making him jump and patted down for the cell with one hand as he stared at the road ahead.

France settled into the seat, adjusting the strap so it didn't rub against his arm. Balancing the pack more soundly, he moved to turn the collar up on his coat to hide his neck from view as he caught sight of himself in the side mirror of the vehicle.

Arthur finally found his phone and pulled it to his ear as he flipped the black plastic open. "Hullo?" he asked.

"Dude! Where are you?"

Arthur winced at the loud and boisterous voice. Alfred. Arthur glanced at Francis and then back to the road. "Not there obviously."

He heard America swear and a smile tugged at Arthur's mouth. "Damn it, so not funny Arthur." Arthur gave a huff at the concern in his old colony's voice. "How come you're late?"

"Something came up," England said simply and pulled the car to a stop as he met a red light. He took the reprieve from driving to look a Francis once again. "I won't be making the meeting after all, Alfred."

Francis turned to look at him at the name. He mouthed 'Alfred' wanting to make sure that he heard correctly. Why would Alfred being calling him? Realization hit him quickly after. He was missing the meeting; Alfred must be worried about him.

There was a pause and then suddenly America's rapid voice was filling Arthur's ears. "What? Hey, did something happen to Francis? Is he alright?"

Arthur gave a nod to France's questioning gaze and then moved the car forward as it turned green. "He's mostly fine."

Francis cocked his head at the phrase. _Mostly_, he pondered lightly. He sighed and returned his gaze out the window, grimacing when he caught another ghostly sight of himself. At least the swelling on his face looked to have gone down, albeit slightly. This was nothing, he could heal from this easily, he'd had had worse before.

Arthur pulled the phone away from his ear and glanced at it before looking back to the road and listening to the odd noises being emitted.

"Ow! Hey, don't pull Mattie!" There were several other struggling sounds made and then finally Canada's timid voice ghosted through the cell's speaker.

"Arthur? This is Matthew, is Francis alright? What happened?"

With a sigh, Alfred flicked on the directional and turned down another road. "He's fine Matthew." England looked to his passenger and sighed again. "He just has a small injury we are checking out."

Blue eyes narrowed as he was careless and allowed his hand to be jostled. He growled and scowled at it, only making him flinch more when his face gave an angry throb. It seemed he could do nothing right today.

"Injury?" Canada's voice became firmer in the question. It had always been interesting to Arthur how Canada would sound exactly like Alfred when he became concerned or angry...maybe it was because he'd never heard Alfred whisper in his entire life. 'What happened?" There was a sudden sound of bickering from the other side of the line and finally Alfred came back on.

"Kay, you're on speaker phone. What happened? And we both will know if you're lying," he said warningly. "So don't."

Arthur tapped his tongue against his teeth as he watched the road. He rubbed his cheek as it throbbed. "I think he broke his knuckles."

"What? How did that happen?"

"He punched Russia." Arthur looked at the mirror and checked if there were any cars behind him.

"WHAT?" America and Canada's shout made England wince.

"Why the fuck was Francis punching Russia? Why was that communist bastard even there?" America's voice held a sharp edge to it.

"I told you something was wrong," Canada said accusingly. There was a pause as they bickered quietly again and Canada came back on. "Can I talk to France, please Arthur?"

Arthur handed the phone to the Frenchman without taking his eyes off the road.

Francis took the phone, raising a brow at him before pressing it to his ear. "Allô," he greeted, sure he was talking to Alfred.

"Francis! _Ça va_? What happened?"

"Matthew?" Francis asked, confusion quickly leaving his voice as a smile took over. "Matthew! How are you?"

Alfred responded however, "Hey, we're both fine. But really, what happened to you?" His voice lowered as though he didn't want anyone to hear what he said next. "Arthur sounds freaked."

"Nothing," he responded, his voice faltering and weak even to his own ears. "Just had a little run in with Russia is all." He paled. Could he really just put it so lightly? He felt the bag slip off his hand, ignoring it as the cool object touched his leg.

There was a pause and finally Canada spoke though it sounded strange. "Please don't lie to us. Having lived with you comes with the territory of knowing when you aren't telling us everything."

France sighed as he brought his right hand to rub his brow, something he usually did to calm himself. He remembered a moment too late as pain raged through him as he tried to move his hand. Letting it out in a controlled hiss, he turned to hide it from Arthur as he gently tried to flex his fingers. Another sharp hiss followed as he finally stilled. "_Merde_," he grumbled before turning his attention back to the phone. "Really, there was just a little altercation after Russia broke into Arthur's house...," he began, quickly interrupted by one of the brothers.

"Russia broke into Arthur's house?" Alfred's voice was deathly calm.

Canada's voice filled in the silence. "Altercation? Did…"

"Did Russia try to make you one with him?" America's voice was still calm, to the point where it was almost eerie.

Francis lost his voice, body involuntarily shuddering at the memory. Russia was so close to him, close enough to feel his breath, his voice purring in his ear. Probing violet eyes bore into him, seeing through him.

"Francis?" Canada's voice went back to being soft.

"Huh...s-sorry," France rasped, startled out of his terror. He paused to compose himself, clearing his throat to buy some time. "Y-yes, he was going to but Arthur stepped in. Everything is alright," he said, trying to make his voice reassuring and calm, cursing as he stuttered. There was no reason for Matthew and Alfred to get in the middle of this. It was his fault and Russia was just being...well Russia.

Arthur looked up from the road, slowing the speed of the car and glanced at him cautiously. He gave a small smile in hearing his name and went back to looking at the road. Internally however, he was softly cursing Russia for putting back the quiet tremble into Francis' words.

On the phone, both America and Canada were silent in a rare moment. Then, the elder North American's voice broke it. "Um…Matthew? Uh…"

"I'm going to kill him." Matthew's voice was still no higher then usual, but there was a fighting edge to it that was rarely heard outside the hockey rink. "I'm going to take my stick, bludgeon him over the head and wipe his face over the ice. And then I'm going to skate over his throat–" There was a sudden muffled yelp and the threatening words became muffled.

America's voice cut back through on the line. "Bro, chill. That's my job, 'cept without the hockey and stuff." There was a pause and the grumbles increased while America's voice wavered between grim seriousness and amusement. "Hey Francis? Is Arthur okay? 'Cause I know how that titanic bastard can be and he has a mean swing." The words died suddenly with a yelp. "Don't bite my hand!"

"Then get your hand off my mouth!"

"Dude, you were all 'revenge of the hockey player' just now. A hero can't have his little bro filthy his mouth."

Ocean eyes turned to gaze at Arthur, giving him a once over. He couldn't see any bruises on this side of the Englishman, but the images of the other darkening bruises were too vivid in his mind. "Arthur seems fine, just a few bruises...do you wish to talk to him?" he asked, truth be told he was too exhausted to hold a genuine conversation. He didn't like the tone of worry in their voices. He was fine, he would heal, he was...used to it.

"Yeah!" Alfred's tone immediately perked up.

"Feel better Francis." Matthew said softly, but the angered edge was still there.

Arthur tilted his head, guessing the phone was going to be handed off soon.

"_Merci_, Thank you," he replied, a small smile gracing his lips even though he knew they wouldn't be able to see it. "_Au revior_," he said before turning to hand off the phone to Arthur. Once the device was taken, he turned his attention back to the window, eyes not really focusing on anything.

Arthur pulled the phone back to his ear. "Hello?"

"Yeah, hey." Alfred's voice was off, the serious contemplation evident in his words. "Did Russia attack you with a pipe or gun?"

Arthur looked to the hospital sign in the distance. "Does it matter?"

"Yeah. Which one?"

"His pipe."

There was a pause and Canada's voice crackled through again. "I'm going to annihilate him." There was another pause and Arthur widened his eyes.

"Yeah, okay Mattie. Um…right. You get yourselves fixed up and we'll handle things back here. Alright?"

Arthur couldn't help the small smile that was frosting his lips. "Sounds fine. I'll talk to you tomorrow Alfred. You too Matthew."

"Bye!" America called loudly.

Arthur hung the phone up with a snap and turned to look at Francis after he parked the car. "Did I just hear that Matthew said he was going to annihilate Russia?" He paused again and looked out the windshield. "Our Matthew…peaceful Matthew?

Francis allowed a lean smile to appear on his face. "Yeah," he muttered back with a nod. He thought back to the kind nation, paling as he thought to his eyes. He shook his head, trying to dispel the thoughts. No, Matthew's eyes were different, completely different.

"Huh." Arthur paused and worked his jaw as it throbbed slightly. "Well, we're here. I guess we'll see how your hand is." He began to unbuckle, glancing curiously at Francis' hurt hand to see if it had swollen any more.

Again Francis nodded, slowly going about the motion of unbuckling himself, taking extra care with his hand. He hated being careful, being confined. He was used to being carefree, doing whatever he pleased. He sighed, shaking his head. He must be getting old. Francis pushed the door open, freezing as something dawned on him. "I hope they don't do anything stupid," he mumbled.

"Of course they will. It's Alfred and Matthew." He shut his door and walked over to France, helping him up gently. "Though this time I don't think I'll have the heart to reprimand them." It was true. If they could beat some sense into the idiot, he'd be happy.

Francis frowned as he leaned a good portion of his weight onto Arthur. He was so tired. "But it's dangerous," he argued weakly. He didn't have the energy to do much else. Everything just hurt so much, his head started to ache. He needed to sit down before his legs gave out.

"Perhaps" Arthur said with a shrug, walking calmly into the ER. "But America's no pushover and Matthew has a habit of being unnoticed." _A deadly combination_, Arthur thought. "Anyway, let's focus on that hand, okay?"

"Alright," Francis relented with a nod, not really in the mood to dispute this any further. Just as they made it into the waiting room for the ER, the icepack fell from where it was balanced on his hand. "_Merde_," he growled irritably. Things were not going well today.

Arthur quirked a brow at the curse. "I'll get it, just take a seat." He set Francis down in a chair and then retrieved the pack. He handed it back to France as he walked towards the receptionist working at a computer at the desk.

"Can I help you?" the woman asked without looking up from her work.

Arthur touched his jaw and then forced a smile, the bruise throbbing angrily. "Uh, yes. I have a friend who needs to be seen. I think his knuckles might be broken."

The nurse looked up with a smile, which quickly faded as she saw the bruises and cuts mauling his face. Shock stretched across her face, showing just how new she was. "W-what happened?" she exclaimed, standing up out of her chair.

Arthur blinked and floundered for a second. "Er…Rugby match," he said automatically, thinking she was asking how Francis had become hurt.

Confusion flashed across the nurse's face, her brow furrowing as she pondered his words. "R-rugby match?" she stuttered, unsure what that exactly entailed.

"Yes." He looked at her worried face in surprise. "I think he busted his hand while grabbing for the ball." Arthur waited for a moment as she stared at him. "So…are there any forms we need to fill out or…" he trailed off.

"Um yeah...sorry," she cried quickly, dragging her eyes away from him to fumble for the clipboard with the forms he had to fill out. She knocked over a can of pencils onto the floor, cursing lightly then blushing as she tried to find him something to write with. "H-here you go, he just needs to fill out one of each of these forms. I-I'll call you up when we have a doctor that can see you," she replied, fighting to stay calm.

Arthur glanced at her again, taking the proffered forms on the clipboard and gave a small smile. "Thank you." He walked back over to Francis, taking a seat next to him and began to fill the forms. He frowned as his ribs ached and then hesitated as he glanced at one of the questions.

Francis gazed over at the forms, taking a moment to adjust the rapidly warming bag of ice on his hand. His eyes traced the answers Arthur were writing down, amazed by how much Arthur knew about him already, how much history that they had actually had together. His gaze found their way to reasons for his current injury. "Rugby?" he questioned, raising a slender eyebrow.

With a flush, Arthur scowled and continued to write. "It was all I could think of." He gave him a look that said 'if you don't like it, you think of something.'

Cocking his head once again, Francis gave a thoughtful nod. "Makes sense," he began, flinching as his jaw gave a viscous throb. "It is quite the violent sport." Hesitantly his fingers found it way to his neck, flinching at the bruising pattern. France quickly gave the collar of his jacket another tug, ducking deeper into it, trying to hide the wound. "We'll have to come up with a reason for this however," he mumbled softly.

Arthur was too far into the paperwork at that point where he wasn't paying attention to what he was saying. "How about I'm your pimp and you're my whore and we got into an argument about how much you were bringing in?" He flipped the page, trying to remember the exact specs of the fabricated family history Francis had.

France felt himself pale, a distant throb struck his heart. He was upset with himself that _that_ word could hurt so much. A couple months ago he could have just shrugged it off, or convinced himself that he could. Francis felt his head bow, his whole body seeming to crumble in on himself. No! He had been doing so well, with Arthur's help – thought he could avoid such thoughts about himself now. But, the word still hurt. "P-perhaps not," he whispered, remembering how many voices had called him that, and perhaps hundreds of others who just hadn't voiced it.

Arthur stilled, the broken tone reaching through his thoughts on the paper work and he looked up. He blinked at seeing Francis' demeanor and opened his mouth to ask what was wrong until he thought about his words. _Oh fuck, way to be a bastard Arthur_, he thought and looked back down to the paperwork. "I didn't mean anything by it," he said apologetically. He was surprised he hadn't slipped up before by saying something stupid. He cleared his throat after a moment and looked to Francis, eyes catching on the bright blue bruise on his throat. England's eyes darkened and malicious thoughts began to swirl. "If they don't kill him, I will."

"It's alright, Arthur," he replied. Sapphire eyes stared down at his damaged hand, left still pulling up on the collar.

"No. It's not!" Arthur growled angrily, putting the pen down and watching France carefully. "He had no right to touch you," he gripped the board tightly while whispering, "and if Alfred and Matthew don't get to him first, I will."

Worried eyes glanced at him. "Arthur, just leave it alone," he warned. There was no need for Arthur to get himself killed over something so trivial. He had had worse, every nation had. He...was just unprepared is all. "He's too strong, and besides, he was just being Russia."

_That's not the point!_ "He still has no right to touch…" he trailed off, mumbling as he went back to the paperwork. _He has no right to touch the man I love_, he thought angrily. A blush came with the thought and he twisted away from the golden haired Frenchman slightly.

Francis' eyes truly looked at Arthur, a flicker of surprise making his way into his expression. The blush and defensive tone that carried in Arthur's voice effectively snapped him out of his darker thoughts. "Are you blushing?" he asked.

"W-What? No! No. Don't be ridiculous, it must be the lights." England gave a huff, darting his eyes down.

The way the Englishman fidgeted under his gaze warmed his heart and brought a smug smirk to his lips. France straightened himself in his chair before leaning back and reclining against the back, resting his head against the wall. A familiar air of his lighthearted and carefree attitude returning. "Whatever you say, Arthur," he replied.

"What are you so smug about?" Arthur growled, looking at Francis from his peripheral.

Francis waved his left hand dismissively. "Nothing," he replied. "Nothing at all." He smiled weakly at the sandy haired man beside him.

Arthur gave a small pout and stood up, walking to the nurse's desk and handing back the forms and pen. He gave her another small smile and then walked back to sit next to France, wondering if he'd be seen soon.

The nurse looked over the paperwork quietly; making sure that it was all filled out before she typed it into her computer. She stared intently at the screen, still new to the system and was struck out of her concentration with a jump as a clipboard was placed down loudly. She looked up in surprise from behind her glasses.

Dr. Howes hovered nearby, a hand coming to rub his tired forehead. He was so close to the end of his shift of Emergency Room hours before he could go home and sleep. Coffee wasn't enough, and dealing with new staff was not really something that he wanted to deal with. But seeing the mousy girl jump sent a twinge of guilt threw him. "Sorry, didn't mean to scare you," he said with a sigh.

She adjusted her glasses and cleared her throat softly. "Oh, Doctor Howes." She paused and looked at the clipboard. "I didn't hear you." While pushing at her hair she looked from the doctor to the waiting room. It had been surprisingly quiet this morning and she was hoping it stayed that way. "There's another patient for you."

Barely biting back a groan, he squeezed his eyes in frustration. "Two more hours, two more hours," he muttered to himself before bringing a hand to rub at the back of his neck. "Alright, what's this one?"

She held up the new clipboard, finishing typing in the most important details. "Possible hand fractures," her words ended in a small squeak as the doctor pulled the board away.

Howes glanced over the information, a bored expression on his face. Hand fractures were nothing too serious, shouldn't be that big of a problem. Ironically, his eyes drifted to his "new" patient's name last. The lettering made his eyes go wide before narrowing with a sigh. "Not these two again," he groaned. He walked around the corner of the desk, peeking out to see the only two sitting in the waiting room.

At the desk the nurse looked up in surprise, her eyes widening. "D-Do you kn-know them?" she asked. She hadn't seen the doctor act like this before.

"Yes, unfortunately," he grumbled back. Once more he glanced down at the charts, flipping through them more carefully. He heaved a heavy long sigh as he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Call down to x-ray and get us a spot in line," he said forcefully calm. Dr. Howes turned sharply on his heels, heading back to his assigned exam room. "I have a feeling we're going to need it."

She looked back from between the waiting room and the doctor's retreating back before standing up, calling for the patient's name. "Francis Bonnefoy?" she called, watching the gentleman from earlier jump up from his seat. He led another man to the desk with him and she gave a timid smile to the pair. "The doctor will see you now." She walked out from behind the desk, about to usher them to the exam room down the small corridor. She saw how one of the men was leaning heavily on the other. "Do you need a wheelchair?" she asked.

Arthur shook his head. "No, I think we're fine." He watched as the small woman gave a nod and led them to one of the closest room in the hall.

"The doctor is already waiting for you," The nurse said, and opened the door for the pair.

Francis flashed an encouraging smile, as though just that one look could convince her that he was ok. She was a younger woman, though compared to him every woman was young. He knew that in a few short years, well, short to Francis anyway, she would be another old wise woman while he wouldn't have looked to have aged at all. It was a life he was used to. The Frenchman looked to the man holding him up. At least he wasn't alone.

His blue eyes turned to what was waiting within, the smile quickly falling from his face. Francis could feel his skin pale as he saw an all too familiar face staring back at him, a familiar tension filling the air.

Arthur stared at the doctor in the room, feeling his stomach drop a little. "Buggers," he hissed and with a slow breath through his nose, led France into the room as the nurse closed the door behind them. They moved to sit down and Arthur could see the quiet anger already on the doctor's face.

Dr. Howes was fuming as he stared at his two recent patients. He had had annoying patients, and those that had raised his blood pressure. Howes also had those that managed to infuriate him, but at least most of them had the excuse of being mentally ill or on some sort of drug. Nothing could amount to the two men sitting in front of him. "Rugby! You were both playing Rugby! What is wrong with you?" he exclaimed.

Arthur at least had the decency to try and look ashamed. Really, what else were they going to say? 'Oh, well, actually we were assaulted in our home, but you can't call the cops because of diplomatic immunity and all'. Instead, Arthur turned his green eyes from Francis to the doctor. "Too much energy?" he offered pathetically, squirming slightly in his seat and wincing as his head throbbed angrily.

Francis looked down, keeping his eyes glued to the interesting all white square foot tiles. Again he moved his hand to his collar, pulling it tighter to hide the bruises. This wouldn't bode well if the doctor found out what really happened. There was no need to get the police involve, no need for innocent casualties– not that they could do anything anyway.

Dr. Howes put the clipboard down, bringing both his hands up to his face to rub his tired eyes. "Do you have any idea how incredibly stupid that is? Mr. Bonnefoy can barely stand, he should still be on bed rest!" he snarled. His hands fell to his side as his glare turned to the injured man. "Do you think just because you had your stitches out two days ago that the wound couldn't possibly open again?" he snapped rhetorically.

Without looking up, Francis opened his mouth to argue, but quickly shut it. There was no use in arguing, regardless of the fact that it really wasn't their fault. Just angering the doctor would only cause more trouble.

Bristling at the tone and head throbbing more from the raised volume, Arthur frowned at the doctor. "Anything he did was my fault doctor. I coerced him to do stupid things." He'd be damned if Francis was blamed for something he had no fault in, Russia had already screwed up things and his meddling would go no further.

Snapping his head up to look at Arthur in disbelief, Francis forgot to cover his neck. His mind was too focused on what the Englishman had said. He was trying to take the responsibility! France would be damned before he let that happen! It was his fault anyway. "What, no!" he cried, taking a moment to clear his throat and coach his voice to sound more rational. "He didn't make me do anything."

With a growl, England turned to him. "Shut up. Yes, I did." He'd rather take the ire of the doctor than to watch Francis take it, besides– he was the one with the broken hand. Arthur was fine.

A flash of deep purple caught Howes' eye, making them narrow. It was easy to catch, without being hidden by the jacket's collar, it clear against the pale skin. He drew nearer to his patient with cautious hands.

Francis turned to return the even glare at Arthur. "No you didn't, you didn't make me do..." His words were cut off by a startled gasp as he felt something tug his collar back and cool hands touch his hot bruise. A dulling pain throbbed under the touch, goose bumps welling up as he felt hot breath of the doctor ghost his skin. He could feel the encroaching presence as the doctor peered closer.

Howes' eyes narrowed further as he came closer, gently tracing the pattern with his fingertips. It was clear what this was, and his earlier suspicions seemed to be confirmed. This was from no rugby match. He reared back and stared between the two men, giving him his most heated glare. "This is a hand print," he growled, pointing to France's neck. "Since when does Rugby include grabbing each other by the throats!"

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So here is part one. We are still writing part two, so I can't say when it'll come out. Thank you for waiting paitently! And thank you for the reviews!-Chris

The next part will go up soon I hope ^^ Hope you like it!-Kage


	10. Chapter 10

Well hello all! I hope you are having a wonderful summer and all that awesome stuff. Here is the next chapter and I hope you enjoy it very much.

_Chris.

Sah! What's up people! I really hope you like the next chapter. Sorry it took so long but with work and everything...argh. Anyway, we have everything planned out for the next chapter so hopefulling it will get out soon. Hope your summer is going amazingly well ^^

^Kage^

* * *

Arthur caught France's eyes and then turned to the doctor, silent for a moment as he tried to come up with an explanation. "American style?" Arthur finally offered, cutting the strained silence that had passed.

"I don't think so," Dr. Howes continued to snarl, crossing his arm, challenging them to argue.

Francis shifted nervously as he tried to come up with an excuse. A thought dawned on him and he prayed that he was not as bad a liar as the others told him. He forced his shoulder to slump and forced a sigh. "There's no need to try and hide it anymore, Arthur," he grumbled as he turned to give the green-eyed man a look that said 'keep your mouth shut and go with it'. He turned to look back up at the doctor. "I was in a little...altercation with one of the other team's players. Long time rivalry you could say," he muttered out.

Arthur was staring at Francis and then looked to the doctor, his face full of disbelief. "Um, yes." He nodded in agreement.

The doctor's arms dropped as he was caught off guard by the admission. He had suspected something of the sort had happened, but nothing could confirm his ponderings such as this. "Why would you try and hide that?" he asked, curiosity evident in his voice.

Francis glanced away, before looking back up at him. He could answer that one truthfully at least. "I-I didn't want to get the authorities involved," he muttered. There wasn't much they could do anyway.

Arthur proffered his own lie for use. "The man in question has a kid and all, no need to get anything ruffled up." He was watching the doctor intently to see if he would buy the lie.

"Yes, that's right," France added with a nod. The small movement made a scratching fire working its way up his throat. He instinctively shrunk to cover his neck, the small shudder making his hand throb in protest.

Watching the movement with wary eyes, England felt the murderous rage towards a certain tall nation with a saccharine smile roil through his abdomen. He looked back to the doctor as he moved.

Dr. Howes stepped back, taking a moment to process the new information before turning to look at the discarded chart. He was sick of this lying. Grumbling a few more words, he whirled to face them again. "Alright, so how did you really hurt your hand?" he demanded. "During the game or in this...altercation."

"Altercation," Francis replied sorrowfully, moving again to cradle his hand. "I punched him rather hard." Ocean eyes glancing down at the swollen appendage, noting how the bag of ice was nothing more than chilled water at this point.

Sighing for what seemed like the billionth time that day, Howes placed the clipboard down and moved to wash his hands. It gave him time to think, help him calm down before turning to attend to his duties as a physician. Moving deliberately slow, he dried his hands before turning back to his patient. Howes reached out a practiced hand and removed the bag of now water delicately off of the injured hand. "Alright...let's have a look shall we?" he muttered, his voice changing back into the professional tone.

The blond haired man gingerly and hesitantly offered the appendage, gritting his teeth as Dr. Howes tried to manipulate the fingers. Jolt after jolt of pain ran up his arm as the kind doctor tried to determine the damage. "Ahh," he gasped out, unable to keep the waver from his voice. "K-kind of hurts." He tried to keep still so the doctor could work, but he couldn't stifle the flinches as pain seeped into his aching and tired body.

Arthur glowered and folded his arms. Russia wouldn't get away with this, not if he had a say. It wasn't helping to have Francis flinching in pain at every light touch of his hand. Malachite eyes turned to the doctor once more as a particular loud hiss of pain brought him out of his thoughts.

Howes stilled his hands, giving the man time to calm his breathing before continuing on more gently. "Sorry," he offered, bending his head down and peering at the skin. Seeing nothing shifting, he gingerly ran practiced fingertips over the injury. "Well nothing feels completely broken, but you may have some fractures or partial breakage." He stood back up, giving distance between himself and the two men. "We'll have to get you down to x-ray to confirm."

With a sigh, Arthur shifted in his seat. Yes, his plans for murdering Russia were going along splendidly. Maybe kerosene would do the trick? Or was napalm better? Napalm and kerosene– that would do the trick.

Howes turned to the phone on the wall, excusing himself to make a call down to the x-ray. He was sure that the wait wouldn't be very long, with their spot in line already secured.

Francis pulled back his hand, once more cradling it to his chest. He grimaced at how swollen and colorful it was. Cautiously and experimentally, he tried to bend his fingers. Even trying was incredibly painful, making his face pale.

"Stop moving it. It'll only get worse." Arthur hissed to him. He didn't like the pallor of his skin and he wished none of this had ever happened.

Francis turned to smile up at him sheepishly, noting the worried look in his eye. England couldn't blame himself for this. If he did, he would have to smack him.

Arthur turned away from the smile and looked down to the multi hued hand, a frown worming its way back into his features. He wasn't just going to kill Russia with his bare hands– he was going to eradicate him.

The frown soon made its way onto Francis' face as well as he saw the look creeping into Arthur's eyes. "Arthur, leave it alone," he whispered, glancing at the doctor warily.

He looked up to France. "I'm not doing anything," the island nation whispered back. Not yet at least.

Francis felt his frown deepen, eyes narrowing as he bore his gaze into Arthur. "Arthur, I know that look," he warned. "Leave. It. Alone."

"I promise you I am not doing anything." Arthur gave him what he hoped was a reassuring smile and then looked away. He paused to glance at the doctor rather then looking into the knowing blue eyes. Well, that was mostly because he was still planning out the best way for Russia to pay.

Somehow, Francis' frown deepened once more, till it stretched painfully on his jaw and bruise. "Arthur..." he pleaded carefully. His heart ached at the thought of having his love hurt, worsening when France would be the reason behind it.

Dr. Howes turned back after hanging up the phone, tired eyes looking back to them. He couldn't help but glance at his watch. So close to quitting time, so close. The doctor might even consider taking some vacation time after this. "Alright, a nurse will be by shortly with a wheelchair to bring you down to x-ray. I'll bring the films back in when they're done," he said, all the while snatching up the clipboard and leaving the room in haste. Another minute with these two and he might check himself into the psychiatric ward.

Watching the doctor leave in a flurry, his white coat flapping behind him, England was left in silence alone with France. He could feel the silence hardening as Francis continued to give him _that_ look. "What?" he finally huffed, glancing back to the other man.

"Don't do anything stupid against Russia," he begged. Yes, for Arthur he would resort to begging. For him and only him. "It's not worth the risk." He relaxed his stare as his eyes glanced between the absinthe orbs staring back.

"I'm not going to do anything stupid." No, that would be because he would have thought out the most rational way to do it. There was another pause of silence between them and Arthur sighed. It was nice that Francis was concerned, but he should be more worried over his hand than Arthur.

"Yes you are, I can see it in your eyes," he groaned, blond hair falling into his own. "Just leave it alone. There's no permanent damage." He hoped at least. "It's done with." No matter what Arthur did or tried to do, it wouldn't take what happened back. Revenge is how mortals had a hand in messing up the world; nations shouldn't be sucked into it too.

Staring straight into Francis eyes was once again too much and Arthur tuned to look at the closed door. "I can't promise to leave it alone." He frowned and then looked to his own hands. There was enough concern radiating from the Frenchman that made his body hot and icy at the same time. Something warm fluttered in his stomach and made his throat thick. He didn't want to worry Francis, he knew what that felt like enough. "But I won't go after him if it worries you that much."

Francis narrowed his eyes slightly. Just not going after Russia wasn't enough. The thought of the North American brothers popped into his mind as well. "Leave it alone, and so should Matthew and Alfred," he said, his tone dropping towards the end. His eyes darted away, looking away. "I-It's no big deal."

He bristled at the last few words. "Can you really not understand why we're angry?" he snapped, the anger returning. Could he really not understand how worried they were, how petrified he was? The need to protect him, to shield _him _from danger? Could he not understand that? "It's a big deal," the Englishman continued, "and I haven't been that frightened for a while now." Not since the rooftop.

"It comes with being a nation, Arthur," he persisted, not looking up at him. "We are never really completely safe." He had accepted this part of his life, long ago. France was never really safe, not truly, no nation ever was. No matter what the nations or their government believed. Security was something he had gotten used to living without, but at Arthur's... Blue orbs disappeared behind his lids and he let out a stiff sigh. It was the most safe he had felt in a long time.

Arthur was still frustrated at his words. He turned to him, absinthe eyes flashing. "That's not the point!" His hands clenched tightly. "We thought you were safe, but you weren't. I left you in a situation that could have been awful and there would have been nothing any of us could have done." His head fell slightly in the acceptance of his failure to keep Francis from harm. "What would have happened if you became one with Russia?" His voice fell down and became tired, "I would have lost you."

Anger flashed through Francis as he heard Arthur begin to blame himself. "You couldn't have predicted this! No one could," he snarled, immediately feeling guilty as the words passed his lips. He couldn't believe all of this was happening, especially now. The Frenchman heaved a weary sigh, before replaying Arthur's words in his head. He scowled at them. "Besides, I would never become...become one with that bastard," he growled. Even the implication was insulting.

"Good. Because I'd be bloody fucking terrified if you did." England looked down to his hands as they clenched and unclenched once again.

France frowned before reaching forward and clamping a hand on Arthur's shoulder. He shouldn't have put him through this, not when they had so much to talk about. Arthur needed him and here he was, weak and tired again. Taking a deep breath he softened his gaze before addressing the man before him like a father would to a child who had just awoken from a nightmare. "It's fine," he cooed softly. "Everything will be fine."

_How can you possibly say that?_ Arthur wanted to say. He looked up and then slumped into the chair, resting his back and dipping his head to stare at the ceiling, exposing his throat while he kept his voice silent.

A small smile stretched his face gently, snaking his hand up to comfortingly caress Arthur's cheek. The Englishman seemed to have relaxed a bit, and for that he was grateful. He was careful to avoid Arthur's many bruises, stroking the pad of his thumb against his jaw. His trained blue eyes waited for the man to relax further under his touch.

Arthur shut his eyes at the feathering touch, letting out a tense breath and stretched his back further on the chair. There was a sudden roar of pain in his chest and he winced, a slight frown falling onto his lips. His ribs were still sore from where Russia had struck him.

Sapphire eyes caught the frown and the wince, eyes narrowing and hand freezing, as he looked him over. "Are you alright?" he asked, hoping he wouldn't be met with a fight.

"Yeah." Arthur sat back normally, mind wandering back to the moment Russia had slammed the umbrella into his chest, wondering briefly how his ribs had not snapped.

"Come on, Arthur," he replied sternly

"It's probably just a bruise I got from the umbrella when Russia hit me with it. Leaning back was stretching it most likely." He fell into silence again, looking to the scuffed linoleum floor.

"Maybe you should have it looked at," he said, gently grazing his fingers across the cheekbone once more. Francis didn't like how Arthur was acting. To use his own words, the more he tried to hide it the more worried he became.

England glanced at him and then pulled away gently to take a look at his ribs. As he lifted his shirt up, he could see a prominent purple and blue bruise was blossoming gently over his rib cage. He gave it a gentle probe with his fingers, holding back the hiss and pushing the pain to be held at bay by the tenseness in his shoulders. He pulled the shirt back down, looking to the concerned man hovering next to him. "I don't think it's all that bad."

Francis only caught a glimpse of the purple-ing skin, the color making him flinch. If it was that deep a color, then it couldn't be good. He pulled his hand back, gazing intently into his green eyes, daring him to argue. Arthur was just as apt to hide injuries as Francis was and he couldn't always take his word. "Let me see," he demanded.

Stifling another sigh, Arthur lifted his shirt again and twisted so Francis could assess the damage done. "I'm telling you it's only a bruise." There was nothing to worry over, he'd know if it was something worse.

Cautiously, Francis reached out his left hand. As gently as he could, the older nation prodded the injury, trying to keep his fingers feather light. He couldn't feel any definite breakage but just the swelling and the way they were set worried him. France wished he could have used his dominant hand, as his unpracticed touch accidentally applied more pressure than he wished over the middle rib.

Arthur made a strangled yelp, it trailing off into a grunt as he jerked away from Francis' touch. Fucking hell that hurt! He looked warily at Francis, realizing that reacting out of pain was not helping his story that it was only a bruise.

The feral yelp made the Frenchman shoot his hand back. He hadn't meant to cause Arthur pain. A steady frown found home on his lips, his brows furrowing in dislike. "You should really get those looked at Arthur," he instructed, his voice taking a tone of no nonsense. "They don't seem to be broken or splintered, but we should make sure."

"It's not swelling." Arthur huffed and put down his shirt, wincing as a throb of pain went through his chest and then quieted. "It's only a bruise." He felt as though he had said it a thousand times, and yet that small fact was not registering in Francis' mind.

"Regardless, just to be sure," Francis argued, his hand coming to grazing gently against the non-bruised rib cage through Arthur's shirt. His blue eyes were piercing as he met green. "You should get it checked out when the doctor comes back."

"Fine, fine," Arthur said flippantly, "If it'll make you worry less." _Worry about yourself, damn it_.

A fleeting a victory made its way into Francis' body, an eagerly welcomed change. "Yes, thank you," he replied, unable to fight the smirk spreading across his lips.

There was a light knock at the door, before a young nurse opened it with a smile. She rolled in a wheel chair, bringing it up to rest next to Francis. "Hello, I'm here to take Mr. Bonnefoy to x-ray," she explained, continuing to smile warmly up at the two men.

England glanced at France with a mixture of pity and relief. "Have fun," he muttered teasingly.

Francis considered sticking his tongue out at him, but the sudden remembrance of his current condition stole all mirth from him. He nodded wearily, before willing his exhausted body to lift himself off the examination table and down into the wheel chair. He glanced down at his hand as the nurse wheeled him out of the room.

Arthur watched him go, and looked to the still open door. He rested back against the chair again, looking to the brightly lit ceiling until his vision spotted. The Briton looked back down again and thought about Francis quietly. There was a flurry of blue from his peripheral and he looked to the side to see a nurse trudge past. Well, Francis said he had to have it_ looked_ at….

"Excuse me! Nurse?" Arthur called out, waving his hand slightly.

She looked up and patted a stray piece of blonde hair back. "Yes?"

"I bumped into a dresser earlier and I was wondering if you could tell me if there is a bruise there, I can't see it from this angle." Lie. Lie. Lie. He waited to see if she would answer as she looked down the hall, her face looking as though there was something she had to get to quickly.

"Sure." She finally said, taking a step into the room as Arthur pulled his shirt up for her to take a look at it. She nodded after a second and straightened her back. "Yes, there is." She paused and then asked as she was leaving the room, "Do you want me to get a doctor to take a proper look at it?"

"No, it's fine." he assured her. "I just wanted to make sure." She looked at him one last time before turning out into the hall and walking away.

Arthur nodded to himself and crossed his arms. "Well, that takes care of that." But without the soothing presence of the other man, Arthur began to fidget as he thought about Russia's attack this morning. What he wouldn't give this second to have the ability to massacre the large northern nation. His phone suddenly went off, the vibrations echoing loudly as it rattled and he quickly dug it out of his pant pocket to answer.

"Hello?" His voice was languid, even when his thoughts were not.

"Hey England!"

Ah. America again. England sat up a little more in his seat. "Alfred? What's going on?" There was a loud shouting noise from the phone and Arthur's brows knitted together in concern.

Alfred took a breath of air, making the speakers spew static. "Canada just got into a fight with Russia!"

….What? Arthur's mind couldn't process the words. "What?"

"Yeah!" There was cheering on the other side and Alfred's voice was lost for a second. "Damn, I think he might have broken his nose." There was a pause and Arthur could almost see the shrug. "Oh well. But yeah, as soon as Russia got here Matt hauled his ass to the rink and made him play against him in hockey."

"Is he alright?" He didn't want them to get hurt in reality. Sure, Russia in pain would be great right now, but he still didn't want their boys hurt.

"What? Oh yeah. He's fine 'cept for a punch to the face. But, man." Alfred's voice took on an amazed tone quickly. "Remind me to never get him angry."

Arthur thought about that for a moment. Canada was always seen as the calm, peaceful one of the brothers. In reality, Matthew could be as (or more) vicious in a fight or battle. He knew for a fact that Germany still feared Matthew slightly as a result of the World Wars.

America's voice quickly cut him out of his thoughts. "But you know…France did teach both of us how to fight, so it's no surprise he has such a wicked awesome right hook." There was another wave of static from the phone as cheering could be heard again.

"…But Matthew is fine?"

"Yeah. He's in the penalty box, but totally fine." There was an edge of pride there that Arthur quickly caught onto. "Just thought you'd want to know."

"Actually, I did. Thank you." England smiled though he knew Alfred couldn't see it.

"Sure, no problem."

"Oh, by the way Alfred?" Arthur started quietly.

"Yeah?"

"If I remember right, there is a bottle of kerosene under the building for emergencies….just in case."

There was a pause of silence and America's grin could almost be heard. "Awesome. Got to go!" There was a click and the line ended just as abrupt as the call had been.

Arthur placed his phone back into his pocket, a smirk raging on his lips. Ah, what would he do without Matthew and Alfred? The elder nation placed his hands in his lap and looked about the room again. Quickly growing bored as the minutes ticked on and there was no sight of Francis. With a shrug, he stood up and went to the multiple pamphlets lying around the room. The first he came upon was a garish red one, the bold font reading: '**Living With Allergies**'. He opened it up, glancing though the useless information and continued down the multicolored rows. There were pamphlets on AIDS, alcohol, balance problems, cancer, colic, diabetes, edema, HIV, insomnia...the list went on. He had just finished reading through pneumonia when he picked up the bold blue pregnancy pamphlet. He flipped it open with a little shrug and read the information for first time mothers.

The door opened then, the same nurse wheeling in a pale and pained Francis. His left hand clutched his right a little more carefully than before, his right arm seeming to be shaking from some after shock. Blue glossy eyes settled upon the pamphlet in Arthur's hands, a small smirk creased his lips. The mirth did not reach the pain filled orbs.

The door startled Arthur and he looked up from the pamphlet. "Back already?' he asked with a smile. It faded slightly at seeing Francis' eyes. The frown was quickly returning to the spot it had claimed for the day.

"Yes, Mr. Bonnefoy was very compliant," the kind nurse cooed softly, her eyes finding its way down to the pamphlet as well. Her smile twisted as she tried to stifle a giggle. "The doctor should be here soon with the films."

Arthur gave a false smile back, curious as to where the amusement in her voice was coming from. He suddenly remembered the pamphlet and turned a dark red. "That's good to hear." He jammed the paper back into its slot and sat back down, the color not fading from his heated cheeks.

Francis turned to look at him, a tiny smile on his face. He looked exhausted, about ready to pass out– not that the annoying pain would let him. His entire body shook with just the effort to stay awake, muscles twitched in tenseness.

The jolly nurse looked between the two, sensing that she was no longer needed and left with a quiet goodbye. She closed the door as softly as she could, not wanting to disrupt the men from their moment.

Arthur watched her leave, the blush slowly reducing its intensity. He looked back to Francis, putting his hand on his head and allowing it to drift to the other's cheek. "How do you feel?" Francis looked too wan and it was already gnawing at his stomach.

"Tired," Francis whispered. He closed his eyes with a sigh, head beginning to droop to his chest. He caught himself before it fell to far, opening his eyes and turning to glance up at Arthur.

They hadn't moved Francis from the wheelchair and so Arthur leaned down to be closer to the Frenchman's level. Fingers curling around his shoulder, Arthur rubbed gently at the other man's shoulders and back. "We can go home soon after this." He paused and hesitated. Then he bent down and gave a peck on Francis' cheek.

Francis nodded, closing his eyes as he missed the warm contact of Arthur. He wanted to be closer, to pull him into a kiss but he was just too tired. At the realization hit him he started to pout. His aggravations left him in breathless whisperings, not quite conscious that the words hadn't stayed in his mind.

Looking curiously at Francis, Arthur tilted his head slightly. "What was that?" He had heard France mutter something, but he couldn't make out what. He moved a long strand of blond hair in silence.

A plan started to turn about in Francis' head. Sure it was childish, and usually he was always one to try and take the mature road, but it was too good to pass up. Again he just sighed, mumbling a phrase over but no louder than before.

England quirked a brow, still stuck in confusion over what Francis was trying to say. "What?"

Francis sighed more deeply, about to give it up. He was getting too tired to play this game.

Moving forward in his seat, Arthur brought his head closer so he could hear what the man was mumbling. It was unusual for Francis to be so quiet and his face filled up with concern once again.

He felt Arthur move closer to him, his lips within range to seize. Closing the gap quickly, Francis placed his lips over the Englishman's. It was chaste, but filled with all the comfort and reassurance he could muster. Besides, if Arthur was going to kiss him, then Francis was going to make sure it was done right. After a moment he pulled back, resting back against his wheel chair. Francis' opened his blue eyes, a mischievous gleam shinning out dimly through the pain.

Arthur blinked as they separated, having not expected the kiss. "Well." He finally muttered, but returned the smile to the other man. That was nice.

France smiled back, flinching slightly when the movement brought a sudden jerk of pain from his jaw. The Doctor had examined that too in the x-ray room, but it was nothing of note. Just a deep bone bruise that would take awhile to heal. Still, it was bothersome that every time he moved to smile or talk the area gave a small twang.

With a frown, England went gently touched the area around the bruise. "Do you need more ice?"

Flinching under the light touch, he nodded lightly. "Yeah, probably when we're done here," he replied. The cold ice was almost bearable when it numbed everything. His eyes flitted over England, coming to rest at his ruffled shirt. "Did you get your ribs checked out?"

"Yes, someone took a look at it." He stilled slightly and watched Francis. He really didn't like how ashen he was looking.

"And?" Francis pressed, trying to take his mind off himself. If anything, his hand hurt more at the moment, making him lightheaded.

Arthur simply looked at him before shutting his eyes and shaking his head. "And? It's nothing. Just a bruise." He opened his eyes and green glanced down to France's injured hand.

"Alright," he muttered at first, but stopped. The Frenchman had a feeling that Arthur was hiding something from him. After a pause, his ocean eyes traveled up to meet his green counterparts. "Are you sure?" he asked, trying to keep the calm and non-accusing tone to his voice.

Arthur gave him a look, slightly annoyed that he was perusing over something as trivial as a bruise. "I think I would know if they were broken." Arthur crossed his legs slightly and waited to see if there was anything more France had to say.

"But if they were just fractured?"

"They aren't," England moved his malachite eyes to meet ocean blue. "And even if they were, all I would be able to do is wrap them." If his ribs were shooting out of his side, that would be a different story; however, Arthur knew there was nothing wrong with his side.

Francis continued to search the eyes before him. Finding that Arthur was not going to give, he heaved a burdened sigh. "Alright," he relinquished. There was something about this that just wasn't right with what Arthur was telling him, like he wasn't telling him the whole truth.

Doctor Howes opened the door with a vigor that can only be explained by a wanting for everything to be over with. He pulled out a manila from under his arm and held it up in the air. "Sorry that took so long." He paused and for the first time looked at the two of them. He faulted at the proximity, before clearing his throat and turning to the light box.

Arthur's face warmed a little at seeing the doctor falter and then he turned to look up at the white-coated man. He sat up and looked expectantly to the light box.

Trying not to look at the men also in the room, Howes slowly drew the film out of the folder, before placing it up on the screen with a decisive thrust. Pulling out a pen from his pocket, he flicked on the light box. An eerily white skeleton hand from two different views appeared on the black film. "Alright, so good news is there is no clear breakage but instead a series of small fractures at the heads of the metacarpal bones on his pinkie, ring and middle finger," he explained, the pen cover tapped the film. He paused before turning to look at Francis. "That must have been one hell of a punch."

Arthur gave France a sidelong glance. "It was." His hand came up and rubbed at his jaw. That wasn't his fondest memory and his face hadn't yet healed from France's fist.

Francis glanced up at Arthur with a sheepish look. He didn't exactly like that he had punched the man he loved, even though he did kind of deserve it. Unconsciously, his left moved to cradle his right a little more, too tired to really flinch at a sudden throb. At least the pain seemed to be dulling a little.

Howes frowned when he noticed that Francis' hand had begun to curl again. It had taken a good ten minutes to coax it open so they could x-ray it properly. They had administered the minimum amount of morphine that they could, but it didn't seem to help the blond haired man again. "Yes well, it won't need any hard casting but I'm going to order a soft splint on it to keep him from overexerting it," he continued.

England looked over to Francis and once more to the doctor. "And how long should that be kept on for?" He turned his eyes back to Francis' hand, which still seemed to be causing him pain. He watched how tired Francis looked with a frown on his lips. When they got home, he should go put him to bed.

Turning his attention back to the x-ray, Howes brought himself closer to it. Humming for a moment as he more closely examined the damage. "Judging from amount of fracturing and placement, possibly three to four weeks," he mused. Stopping, he turned to glare warningly at the both of them. "More if he tries to use it before it's ready," he threatened harshly.

He nodded. Having to punch Russia in the face shouldn't be a common occurrence. England would be a failure of a man and nation if he allowed Russia to just abuse Francis again.

Not fully sure that the men exactly knew the severity of this, he crossed his arms and continued to stare them down. Besides, they had got into a fight, after being in a supposed 'rugby game', only days after one of them had their stitches out. "That means keeping it still, not using it to carry things, eat, open doors for at least a couple days, possibly for the first week," he said seriously, trying to force them to understand.

With a look of surprise crossing his face, Arthur looked back up. "That much?" He had thought maybe a week or two. Well, that was going to put a chink in his already limited mobility.

Howes nodded, the stern look still on his face. "While these aren't normally that serious, he has multiple ones and the swelling is rather bad, I don't wish to risk causing any of them to shift," he stated. "At the moment, they don't need any pins but that doesn't mean they won't if you're not careful," he warned darkly.

"I see," England said slowly. The reminder that this was his fault for being unable to protect Francis rang clearly through his mind. He began to gnaw at his inner lip, thinking through the doctor's words. The Island nation finally looked up, his bright green eyes soft as he looked at France for the briefest of moments before returning to watching the doctor move about.

Francis glared down at his hand, flinching as he tired to straighten it again in one go. His scowl deepened, forehead furrowing in the heated stare. "Bastard," he growled at his colorful hand. The stress of everything wasn't helping it any.

Howes turned at the curse, eyebrows raised. They fell once he saw the blue eyes glaring at his own hand. "Right, so I'll send in a nurse to fit you with a cast and a list of things that you'll need to avoid for awhile." He sighed as he glanced back down at the forgotten clipboard again. "I'll also fill out a form so you can get a refill of your pain medications," he said with reluctance. He didn't want Mr. Bonnefoy to become reliant on them. Howes turned to glare at the two of them. "I don't expect this to be filled anytime soon."

With a wary grin, Arthur nodded once more to the doctor. "There shouldn't be any need."

"Good," Howes said with a nod before picking up the clipboard and turning to leave. Pausing at the door, he glanced back at the men, the scowl falling from his face, being replaced with the worn look again. "Good day, gentlemen," he said quickly before turning and exiting the room.

Francis sighed, feeling a great deal of tension leave the room with the doctor. He continued to watch his hand, as if at any moment the pain and swelling would recede, and it would move on its own. The stubborn Frenchman tried to move it again.

England hissed quietly at him, "Would you stop moving them, it'll only irritate it more." He folded his arms and frowned again, the sour demeanor finding its way back to his features.

"It's not that bad," Francis muttered back, "easier since they had to force it open." He flinched at the recent memory. That had hurt like...what was the expression. It hurt like hell. It almost felt like his joints were grinding against each other, his muscles too tight. The medication they had given him had barely taken the edge off

Concern flashing behind his absinthe eyes, Arthur turned to Francis. "What? Force it open? Are you okay?" When there was a silent pause, he gently took his cool hands to the injury, looking at it gently and deftly.

Francis couldn't help but grit his teeth as Arthur's gentle touch grazed his hand. He tried to keep his breathing calm, shutting his eyes against the dizziness. He decided it best to evade the questions Arthur posed. "I-I think the swelling has gone down," he hissed as calmly and evenly as he could.

Arthur pulled away quickly as soon as he heard the pain in his companion's voice. He hadn't realized that even the lightest touch would cause so much pain. He stared at France in concern, and then gave a sigh. "If you say so." He wished he could take the injury for him. Instead, all he could do was like before. Sit and be supportive.

Suddenly, a soft knock came at the door before it slowly opened. "Hello?" the soft call came from the kind nurse poking her head in. It was the same one who Arthur had flagged down in the hall.

The sandy haired Briton looked up in surprise and then turned back to France. He eyed all the medical equipment as the nurse came in further to the room, closing the door behind her. Well, what were the odds that it would be the same nurse? A small, unsettled feeling nestled its way into Arthur's stomach.

The nurse gently let the door close behind her before walking forward with a box in hand. She pulled a sheet of paper out of the box. "Alright, here we are," she said kindly, handing the sheet to Arthur. "This will tell you what needs to be done to make sure it heals correctly, and there's one in the box so you will know how to wash the splint." She pulled over another chair and a tray on wheels and laying things out. She started humming as she put on blue elastic gloves and pulled out a jar and roll of gauze.

Glancing at the paper curiously, England began to read through the printed text quickly. He however kept giving secretive glances to Francis out of the corner of his eye.

Nurse continued humming as she quickly opened the jar. Scooping out a practiced amount, she looked up at Francis with a smile. "Mr. Bonnefoy, if you'll please hold out your hand," she said warmly.

Francis tried to smile back at her before carefully laying his hand out on the cloth she had spread out for him. He tensed as he steeled himself for the sharp pain that would come with her touch. Just waiting for her to begin, Francis couldn't help but reflect on just how tired he was.

The nurse began to gently spread out an even layer of the cool gel over his skin. Her fingers never actually touched Francis' hand, merely laying out a thick layer and gently working it in. "Try not to move, alright? This will help with the swelling and the pain," she explained, turning a kind eye up to him.

France nodded stiffly; jaw firmly set as he concentrated on not even flinching. It wasn't that bad, but he knew that could change at any moment. He let out a grunt as a sudden spasm worked down his wrist, but otherwise held his breath to still his tired body.

Arthur looked up from the reading after having picked up the quiet admission of pain. He tilted his head softly; eyes worried and he gently laced his finger's with the golden haired man. He really wished he didn't have to go through all of this pain. It was almost ridiculous.

Stripping off her gloves once the gel was evenly spread, she turned and took hold of the gauze. Cautiously, she took hold of France's wrist to lift the hand up and slowly wrapped the injured appendage in gauze till the first knuckle of each broken finger. "You don't have to gauze the hand, but it will keep the gel from soaking the splint," she explained, feeling the silence unnerving. She found that talking to her patients often calmed them down.

Looking up at the words, England quietly gave an awkward grin to the nurse before looking back over to his long time friend and…love? The small tendril of a blush threatened to overtake his cheeks and Arthur cleared his throat against them.

She gently laid it back down before reaching for the box. Quickly, she pulled out the black splint, cautiously undoing the new Velcro. She laid it out before hesitantly taking Francis' hand again. Shooting the golden haired man an apologetic look, she whispered a soft warning before straightening his fingers out again. She didn't wait an instant before securing his hand in his splint. It kept the three damaged fingers together and straight till halfway passed the second knuckle.

Watching in interest at the brace, England carefully took in all its aspects. He felt Francis' hand tighten a minuscule around his own. Arthur smiled silently, but did not look over to him nor meet his gaze.

Strapping the final Velcro in place, she gently guided the hand back towards Francis. "And there we go," she said with chipper smile. She quickly turned and began cleaning up her mess, giving them time to calm.

Francis eagerly took his hand back, letting out the breath he had been holding the entire time. He glanced at his new accessory for the next few weeks, sighing in relief as he felt the pain begin to ease. At least the bones were set now.

Arthur watched France's blue eyes gauge the new brace. "How does it feel?" he asked.

"Better," Francis whispered, before turning to look back up at him with a small smile. "A lot better."

With a bright smile of his own, Arthur said, "That's good to hear." It really was. At least something seemed to be going better for them.

The nurse looked up at the two of them, everything packed up on the tray ready to be taken away. "Alright, while I still have you here, let me take a closer look at that side of yours," she said, pulling on another pair of blue gloves and moving towards Arthur. "I really should have seen if there are any determinable fractures or breaks."

Francis started at hearing her words, turning slowly to glare at England. "Yes, you should," he said, voice eerily calm. "Thank you."

The island nation turned to him in silence, giving a miniscule sheepish look before returning back to the nurse. "Really, what you did earlier was fine before." He continued to look at her, watching her face carefully.

Clenching his hand that was still intertwined with Arthur's, Francis gave the nation a sickly sweet smile. "Perhaps just to be on the safe sided," he hummed, a seething look behind his ocean eyes.

_Well, fuck_. "Really I'm sure it's fine." He turned away from Francis again, the normally calm blue eyes seeming to have a burning quality to them suddenly. He didn't pull his hand away, even though it was starting to hurt a little.

The nurse glanced between the two of them, unsure what exactly was going on. "I-I would feel better if I did. I can't really tell from just glancing at it, and the bruising look rather bad," she said quickly, trying to diffuse the situation.

"Fine," Arthur sighed and tugged his hand sharply away from France. "But I'm telling you it's only a bruise." He touched where the wound was lightly, holding in the light wince that even his own touch brought.

She leaned in closer, hands ready. "Lift your shirt please," she requested.

Arthur complied, taking hold of the ruffled shirt and lifting so the bruising was visible. It was sort of a painful bruise, but then again it was his ribcage, which was sensitive tissue in the first place. He looked to the wall where a diagram of a knee was, looking at the names of muscles and veins rather then the nurse or the Frenchman beside him.

Carefully, the nurse gently ran her hand over the bruise, probing them with a practiced touch. Cautiously, she gauged the damage to each rib, moving slowly as not to miss anything. Swirling inwards, her fingers found their way to the center of the bruise, where the worst and darkest color was. She hummed as she hesitated over the center rib, moving over the same spot over and over again.

Francis' ears perked, picking up the deep hum. "What is it?" he asked, leaning forward to look at where her hand was. He blanched slightly at the sickening bruise color, one that wrapped around his love's chest.

Arthur flinched at the touch, the pressure against the bruise bringing an aching and throbbing pain. At least he managed to keep the yelp down in his throat. He wanted to pull away…did she really have to keep prodding at it?

Narrowing her eyes, she ran her fingers over the rib again, painfully slow. "This one is definitely cracked but should heal fine. All the others are bruised but you'll have to be careful," she said, sitting back up and looking at the green eyed man. "I can wrap it if you like, but that might be more of an annoyance."

"No, it'll be fine." Of all his luck, he had actually ended up with a cracked rib. He could already feel the storm heading towards him and England hefted a short sigh. "Thank you though."

The nurse smiled up at him, backing away and snapping off her gloves. She finished cleaning up before something seemed to dawn on her. She snapped her fingers before reaching a hand into her pocket and pulled out another paper. "Oh, here you are. This is the prescription from Doctor Howe's," she said, handing the paper to Arthur while he pulled his shirt down. Collecting the tray of material she used for Francis, she turned to look at the Frenchman. "You'll need to make an appointment in a couple weeks to see how the hand is healing."

Francis forced a still smile, hurt and anger churning for control inside himself. "Yes, thank you," he said, coaching his voice to be calm and complacent.

"We will, thank you." Arthur kept looking at the nurse. Even without looking at France, he knew the other man was unhappy.

The nurse nodded at them, before continuing her way out of the room. As the door clicked shut, Francis turned his heated gaze to Arthur. The lying and disregard for his health hurt him more than anything ever could.

Arthur still looked towards the door. He wasn't sure why he couldn't meet the other man's gaze– in his view he hadn't really done anything wrong.

Blue eyes narrowed and a growl escaped his throat as Arthur continued to evade his glare. "You lied to me, _Angleterre_," he said, painfully low. Francis couldn't help the tinge of hurt that crept into his voice.

Arthur risked a glance at France. "Not really," he said softly as he saw the hurt behind the anger in the blonds' eyes. He hadn't thought the other man would take quite this much offense.

"Yes, you did," Francis snapped back. "Blatantly," he added soon after. That hurt most of all. Arthur had lied to his face, after all the truth that Francis had told him.

Arthur frowned at that. "I said I had it looked at and it was." He folded his hands and looked back into Francis' angry look. That was true, he had the nurse take a look at it…perhaps not the way France had meant, but then they were here for him, not Arthur.

France narrowed his eyes further. "But not really looked at," he countered. Why hadn't Arthur just had it looked at? Was it really that big of a nuisance?

Arthur set his jaw. "It was fine." Why was this such a big deal?

"You have a cracked rib!" Francis exclaimed in disbelief. Those were always good to know about, in case they got worse. Depending on the severity of it, even twisting wrong could finish the break.

Shifting in his seat, England continued to stare at Francis and countered slightly peeked, "Does it matter? There's nothing that would have changed." It was true. He could ice it and maybe place a wrap around it, but that would be all. He had known that from the beginning.

Francis stared at him for a few moments, heavy silence filling the air. "I guess not," he muttered, hurt voice breaking the silence. He stood shakily, left hand reaching out to the wall to steady himself. Inching along, he made his way to the door, tired body screaming at him to sit back down. He was too angry to listen, moving on pure stubbornness alone.

At the first sign of a tremble, Arthur stood up in concern. He doubted the France was back to a normal strength where he could walk by himself. "Do you need help?" he asked.

Francis growled, ripping the door open. "I'm fine," he snarled, showing his anger rather than his hurt. He stumbled forward, his right hand pressed tightly to his chest. Right now, he wanted to be as far away from Arthur as possible.

Following quietly behind him, Arthur watched every small movement of the other. His hands were stretched out slightly; ready to catch France at the slightest inclination that he would sag from exhaustion. He kept his distance though. He knew Francis' anger was something to be careful with.

Trying to cross the threshold of the door, he stumbled forward, left hand shooting out to catch himself. France snarled at himself, frustrated and just aggravated about everything that happened to day.

His hand was on the other man's shoulder instantly, pulling gently to keep him from falling. So maybe they were both mad at each other, that didn't mean England wanted to see France ending up even more hurt or sprawled on the floor.

Francis recoiled at feeling Arthur's hand on him, trying instantly to shrug out of the grasp. It only caused him to lose his balance even more. "Let go," he snarled, anger rising at the weakness of his voice.

Arthur took a step back, letting go of his arm quickly at the realization of just how mad France was at him.

Pressing his back against the wall, France righted himself. He found himself staring down Arthur, panting slightly in anger and the exertion. Letting loose another glare, he turned to glance down to the exit door, trying to judge how far it exactly was and if he could make it on his own.

_Screw this_, Arthur thought sourly. He gave a heavy sigh while muttering, "This is ridiculous." He then grabbed Francis by his arm and began to lead him down the hall. "You can be pissed off at me in the car or when we get to the house, but you falling on your face isn't going to help anything." He glanced at France from the corner of his eye, wondering slightly if the other man would shove him off. He'd carry him to the car if he had too, but Francis was not going to hurt himself more because he was livid at Arthur.

Francis tired to shove him away at first, before reluctantly giving in. His feet moved halfheartedly, face turned away from Arthur, blue eyes still scorching. "I can't believe you," he whispered, heart giving a dull twang. He needed time to cool off, to calm down if anything.

Malachite eyes looked down, "I'm sorry, I really didn't think it was anything necessary to have looked at." He paused and looked to the double doors leading to outside. "It's trivial."

He whipped his head around to face him, shooting off another glare. "It's not just that Arthur," Francis roared. Damn it, here he was ready to tell Arthur the truth again, while the sandy blond didn't seem to have any urge to return the favor.

Balking slightly, the island nation slowed down slightly as bitter confusion quickly moved through his mind. "Then what?"

Francis silenced. He couldn't believe him. "Leave it alone," he snarled, shaking his head. "If you don't know, then it's not worth it." His next step nearly sent him and Arthur tumbling as his knees buckled beneath him. He growled in frustration. This was really getting old.

While straightening them both out, England's eyes roamed over France's features and then he looked down to the paved ground as he found his answer. They left the hospital's domain, the swish of the doors bidding them goodbye. Arthur shook his head and slipped his arm around the taller nation's waist and pulled his arm over his shoulder. At least now they wouldn't both fall to the ground. Both men continued to walk in a heavy silence and finally Arthur broke it when they began to come to the parking lot. "No, I do. I'm not daft," he added when he saw France's look. "I'm…sorry for lying to you." Arthur stopped and looked towards his car in the distance. "But not for not having it looked at."

"And yet you did it anyway," Francis barked.

Arthur stayed silent for a while, neither moving. "Yes." He admitted. "Sorry." He was sorry, for ruining his trust and yet Arthur still couldn't really see why he was so angry over the rib.

Francis gritted his teeth, annoyance still making his body shake. "Even when I asked you," he said, voice creaking in hurt.

"I only said I had someone look at it," Arthur reminded Francis, slightly defending himself.

"But I asked you to have it checked out," Francis replied, exacerbated.

"So you have someone glance at it and deem it satisfactory?" Did his opinion and requests really mean so little to him?

With a frown, England met his gaze. "Well it didn't change the outcome." _This is getting nowhere_, he thought angrily and then remembered the rest of Francis' words. "And what is wrong with that?"

"And what if it had Arthur?" France exclaimed, his voice still somehow soft._ I want to know if you were hurt because I was stupid and let Russia in_. He couldn't help it as his eyes traced over Arthur's face and then down to the side of the deep bruise.

"I would have known if it was really bad." His tone matched Francis' and his eyes darted questioningly at the myriad of emotions going through the other's blue eyes.

Francis stopped, taking a deep breath to calm himself. Holding it in as long as he could, he let it out in a controlled hiss. "But what if you didn't?" he asked, voice oddly soft. "Don't you think there is a reason I asked you to have it looked at? I don't press things just to hear myself talk." His voice took on a twinge of self defense.

"Sorry," he apologized again. Something told him to finally just shut up about the whole matter and he looked away again. A small nagging voice finally told him that maybe it was because France had worried over him that was making him so angry. Arthur thought about that. Should their positions have been reversed…he would probably be just as furious. He lowered his head more at the thought. He was being an idiot again, wasn't he?

Taking another calming breath, Francis closed his eyes. Maybe he was just taking this too far. _I mean, Arthur was right, nothing had changed and everything was fine._ "Look, I'm sorry too," the blue-eyed man started, "I shouldn't have gotten all worked up."

"No, you have a right to be."

Francis raised his right hand and waved it as if it could knock the tension and bad feelings out of the air. Immediately he hissed in pain, cursing loudly in his head at his own stupidity. "No, just ignore me," he muttered out, as exhaustion washed over him. "I'm just tired." His voice dropped to a soft whisper.

Arthur had looked up as soon as he heard the hiss of pain. Still standing still, Arthur looked back down as soon as he knew the older nation was alright. He knew deep down he was still the one at wrong and he took a long draught of air. Reaching up and linking his finger quietly with the other's good hand, Arthur apologized once more. "_Je suis désolé_, _Francis_," he muttered finally and as quietly as he could too.

Francis turned to look down at Arthur, after taking another deep breath. He couldn't fight the smirk that stretched across his face at how young and childish he actually looked. He gave Arthur's hand a gentle squeeze. "_Moi aussi, Arthur_," he said. The Frenchman felt fault in this too. "_Moi aussi_."

Arthur looked up at him in surprise. He was doubly so when he saw the smirk across his lips. _Just what is he smirking at?_ Arthur thought mildly.

Francis flashed him a stronger smile, the anger and hurt slowly subsiding. It just wasn't fair when Arthur looked so damn cute.

Something in those knowing blue eyes made the blush crawl back onto Arthur's face, quickly reddening his skin and making him feel too hot. He couldn't exactly move away from the other man since he was supporting him, so he made do with looking at the suddenly fascinating asphalt.

Leaning down, Francis kissed the pale flesh of the junction of Arthur's neck and shoulder. It would have to do, since the sandy haired man had moved his lips out of reach. Either way, it brought up a warm feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Feeling the cool lips on his skin, Arthur seized slightly, and then twisted his head so their lips met. It brought a sudden tingling through his whole body and Arthur smiled slightly.

Using the arm wrapped around Arthur's shoulder to his advantage, the Frenchman pulled the island nation into a deeper kiss. He smiled in the kiss, fully ignoring the throbbing of his hand. Right now, all he wanted to do was go home, take his pain meds and go to sleep. He couldn't help but sigh in his head. He never did like medications. An idea dawned on him as he pulled back and looked into green eyes.

There was more than one way to deal with pain.

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Reviews are loved very much! As said earlier we will try and update soon.


	11. Chapter 11

Hey everyone! Look who's back! :) Life has been crazy for the two of us to get together to type. But we did it! ...over the course of three months... ^Yeah, since some of us had to work every single #$%ing day...and some people weren't online!^ *Oi! You had awful timing...* Anyway, here are our apologies to having it being so late, and we hope the next chapter will come out somewhat sooner.

KAY.

*WARNING* This chapter has ...well... ^It has wonderful, smut! Boy on Boy action, lemons, yoai, whatever you want to call it!^So if you're not into that or you're as squeamish as I am, don't read it and just wait for the next chapter. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED D:

^Ok! So I just wanted to shoot a thanks out to you guys for bearing with us as this chapter took forever. This is really our first time writing stuff to this extent sooooo...be nice! I'm just feeling accomplished I could get Chris to write this with me...though she did have a perminant blush covering her face XD! Thank you and enjoy the read!^

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Arthur pushed the stick shift into park and quietly turned off the engine. The rain drummed around the car rhythmically and he turned his tired green eyes to the sleeping man next to him. He had fallen asleep soon after leaving the hospital. Arthur hadn't had the heart to awake him quite so soon, so he had gone to get gas for the car and gone to the bank to withdraw some funds. After the errands were complete, the tired Englishman had slowly driven back home. Now they sat in the car and France still hadn't stirred.

Turning to him slightly, England watched as his chest rose and fell slowly. He let out a tired sigh and pulled down the sun visor, flipping open the mirror to glance at the bruises.

His jaw was a light green and yellow from Francis' punch a week ago. Russia's attacks had left a blotting of dark blue and purple over his temple and left side of his cheekbone where the pipe had struck. An angry red mark was left from the boot against his throat. England sighed again, flipping the visor up with a snap and looked over to Francis. He pushed him slightly on the shoulder, watching his head loll with the motion. "Hey, we're home. Wake up."

"Hmmm," Francis hummed, lifting his head off the seat, his eyes fluttering open groggily. He moved to sit up, bringing his right hand to rub at them, as though to rid them of the traces of sleep. France started in shock as he felt Arthur's fingers snatch around his wrist, bringing him back to reality as a sudden ache reached his fingers.

"Don't do that," Arthur admonished, pulling his wrist down and away. "You'll hit your face with the brace." Letting go of the other's hand, Arthur nodded to the house. "Come on, we're home. You can go sleep in there."

France looked back at him, unable to fight back the yawn that was working his way up his throat. Finally giving in and stretching out, much like a cat that had been dozing in the sun. "_Non_, Arthur," he said softly, "I'm wide awake now." He looked about, body feeling rejuvenated and some strength returning.

Tilting his head slightly, choppy locks falling into his eyes, Arthur studied him as he stretched and tried to gauge his strength. He opened the car door, and began to slide out. "Do you need help?"

Taking a deep breath, Francis turned to glance at him out of the corner of his ocean blue eye. "Most likely," he muttered, turning to look away. That was one thing that never got any easier.

England gave him a slight smile, one foot out the door and his hand on the handle. "It's all right you know," the murmur came out surprisingly quiet. "At least you're better then before." He paused, looking down and then got out of the car. He walked around and then pulled the car door open for France. "That's something, right?"

"Yes," Francis muttered with another heavy sigh. "Yes, I suppose it is." Sure, he was getting better, but it didn't mean that the time it took to heal wouldn't press his patience. It was annoying to say the least, and completely infuriating.

Hooking his arm around Francis' torso, Arthur pulled him up deftly and supported the other's weight. He closed the door with his foot and glanced over to Francis. "Right then." They started to walk towards the front door, and though it was quiet in the small neighborhood, he couldn't help but look around to make sure no one would jump out at them; that there were no shadows lurking around the corner that would bring harm.

Francis stood on his own power as Arthur unlocked the door. His body was still sluggish from waking up, but the short nap had done wonders for him. He could feel energy starting to buzz around his body. A sudden twang from his braced hand brought with it the memory of the Russian. France glanced about him warily, but somehow knowing that Ivan was long gone...for now. A stray drop landed directly on his nose, as he brought his sapphire blue eyes to gaze at the rain, noting that it had picked up from when they were in the car.

The key gave a 'snick' as the lock turned and Arthur opened the door quietly. He grasped France's free and uninjured hand gently while leading him inside. A soft and nearly inaudible sigh fell through his lips as he looked around his home, somehow the warmth inside having been leached away from the intrusion and then spun around, slamming the door close and locking it quickly in the same move. Nodding to the door, noting out of the corner of his that a picture was swinging slightly, he led Francis towards the living room. Stopping in front of the couch. "Do you want your pain medication?" Arthur began to shrug out of his damp coat.

Francis found himself following without complaint, eyes locking onto Arthur and Arthur alone. He just couldn't bear to bring himself to look at the damage his actions had caused to England's home, nor the bruising which marred his angelic face. Shaking his head lightly, he was somehow confident that he could get off without it. "_Non_, I'll be fine without it," he replied, stretching his back discreetly. Sleep had done a lot to take the edge off.

The fabric of the button down shirt stretched tautly against his arms as he finished pulling the coat off and draped it in the crook of his elbow. "Alright, if you're sure." There was a second of silence that passed briefly and soon England continued. "Do you want to take your coat off? I'll hang it up in the closet." He started to move away from the couch, glancing over to the empty grate and thinking for a moment whether he should light a fire or not. He then turned back to meet Francis' blue eyed gaze.

"I can get it," Francis assured him with a nod, blue eyes locking onto their absinthe counterparts. He really didn't like the worry burning behind them but he couldn't really ask for it to stop.

Arthur nodded, walking back to the hall and tossing the coat on the banister, not caring for the small task for the moment. Instead his attention was drawn to the mangled black umbrella lying pitifully on the ground. Distant rustling reached Arthur's ears and registered briefly that Francis was moving about. England toed the once study and reliable umbrella.

Francis shrugged out of his own jacket, moving slowly when it came to his damaged hand. Sighing when it finally came off, he began the short trek to the closet, mind relatively blank until his gaze found its way to the cracked wall. The memory of causing those cracks– of what actions brought them to be– quickly came back to him. The coat started drooping in his grasp, focus completely on the wall itself.

Scowling at the umbrella, Arthur pulled the closet door open and tossed the mangled metal and fabric inside. He glanced behind his shoulder and watched in silence through choppy bangs as France continued to gaze at the wall. "Everything okay?" Turning his body more fully to the other man, Arthur tilted his head as he waited for even an inkling of an answer.

Starting out of his trance, Francis snapped his gaze over to him. Looking him over before returning to look at the damaged wall. "_Oui_, it's just..." He paused with a sigh. "So much damage." Another sigh worked his way up his throat before hanging his head, moving to rub his neck with his right hand before catching himself and letting it drop down again.

An expression between a grimace and a frown twitched on his lips and Arthur slid over to his friend, placing a hand on the other's lightly slumped shoulders. "Well, as long as you're alright." He squeezed gently. "That's all that matters." Arthur allowed his attention to be drawn to the wall too, eyes lingering on the broken plaster and the hairline cracks running through the wall. A thought fluttered through his mind and something in his chest clenched. "Maybe we should have checked if you had a concussion."

Francis turned to look over at him, smirking lightly before batting his hand away with a playful air. He didn't have a concussion– that he knew. "No, I'm fine. Jaw hurts more than anything," he assured, eyes staring deeply into Arthur's.

Arthur noticed the intensity of the gaze and was staring back for quite some time before he blinked and rubbed at his hair. "What?"

Francis couldn't help but smirk at how cute Arthur looked at that moment, hungrily regarding him before turning away and glancing back up at the wall. "It's nothing," he said, noticing how deep his voice had suddenly gotten.

Curiosity welled inside and Arthur found himself getting slightly flustered– a ghost of a blush rising on his cheeks. He shrugged then, defaulting into a slight frown. "Do you need more ice?" he said as he nodded to the braced hand. Arthur began to move towards the kitchen.

Francis followed after him, eyes eagerly trailing over Arthur's back. Random images of the muscles underneath the skin, rolling and shifting with every movement began to tease his mind. He soon found himself in the doorway to the kitchen, deciding to lean on the door jam. France tried to keep his mind clean, but for some reason, he couldn't take his eyes off of Arthur's form. What he wouldn't do to explore every inch of it. "Not right now," he uttered, his voice oddly husky. "I'm alright."

Arthur started to hum lightly to himself, only looking to the small cozy kitchen of his home. The silver of his fridge gleamed lightly in the soft light and he pulled it open, cool air pooling towards his feet as he reached down and retrieved an ice pack. While placing the pack onto the dark mottled flesh of his bruise, a soft and nearly inaudible sigh fell from his lips. Green eyes turned to look at the grey sky outside, silence only interrupted by both men's breathing and the ticking of a clock nearby.

Such thoughts drained from his mind as his eyes fell onto the bruised skin of Arthur's side. It looked painful and the urge to help ease it away washed over him. "Will you let me wrap your side, Arthur?" The words fell from his mouth before he even had time to think about what he was saying.

Taken away from his quiet thoughts, it took a moment to blink back into reality for Arthur and he gazed back at Francis evenly. He opened his mouth to retort, but felt the words slowly dry up in his throat and clog there as he simply watched France, soft light of the kitchen making him almost seem as if he were glowing. Clearing his throat and falling into his usual frown while shaking his head, the Briton thought about it for a second. "It's not really necessary." He stopped and looked back outside for a moment. "But if it'll put your mind at ease."

France let a small smile grace his lips. "It will," he affirmed in a calm, caring tone. His eyes softened as he gazed into green pools. He tried to keep his gaze away from the bruises spreading his face. The urge arose to kiss them and caress them till the pain left Arthur's features.

With a smile falling from Arthur's lips, he turned towards the stairs. "Alright, the bandages are upstairs." He moved to the staircase then, hand rolling over the banister as he ascended. A glance backwards affirmed that France was trailing behind.

Blue eyes watched his movements carefully, frowning as he watched Arthur flinch as he twisted around. "Are you alright Arthur?" he asked quietly, hand starting to stretch out towards him, fingers twitching in the cast as a sudden throb radiated from his right hand.

The bruise on his chest felt like a burn from the aching, and he frowned slightly when Francis noticed the wince. "Yes, I'm fine. Just a little sore." He turned back, this time placing some pressure on the dark skin of his chest.

The frown that marred his face deepened. "Shouldn't you take some pain medication then?" he suggested. The thought of his _Angleterre_ hurting sent his stomach flipping and heart sinking. He knew he was using Arthur to forget his own problems, but what was the harm? Arthur had helped him, when no one else would.

Stopping on the top step, he looked down to see Francis looking up with those bright eyes of his. "I'll be fine as long as I don't agitate it. Besides, you're the one with the prescription." A warm feeling blossomed in the pit of his stomach at hearing Francis worry for him. His lips tugged upwards in a slight smile.

Francis snorted despite himself. "As if you have finished yours, _Angleterre_," he retorted, some dry humor finding its way into his voice.

Arthur paused at that, the blue pharmacy bag completely forgotten. "Right. I forgot about that." He continued along the landing, heading towards the bedroom to grab where some of the extra gauze was. "I haven't taken that in a while." Which was true since he really wasn't one to take medicine for bouts of time. Also the scar on his wrist was fading in pain and therefore memory.

Francis sighed as he moved to sit on Arthur's bed, letting his eyes watch Arthur move about the room. In the back of his mind he noted how soft the bed was. He had never really been in Arthur's room before, and took the time to look at the pomegranate colored walls, and the ash drapes framing the only window in the room. Few pictures were scattered about the room on the dark stained furniture spread about the room. On the west wall, a lovely painted portrait of Arthur and a young Alfred and Matthew hung. A particular picture caught his eye, one that stood on the dresser not far from the bed. It had been taken during World War II, right after liberating one of the smaller towns on his border. They both looked worn and tired, France grimacing as he looked at his own appearance. Arthur's face was somber, but his eyes gleamed with accomplishment and pride. France looked back at his own, his face sporting a tired smile, eyes closed to hide the pain the war had left him in. The triumph was one that led to many and eventually the liberation of his beloved nation.

Walking into the bathroom, Arthur pulled out the small drawer under the sink, sifting through it, but finding no sign of the gauze. He slammed it closed, looked through another drawer and then returned back into his bedroom. He caught Francis looking at some of the pictures in the room, then went to his bed side table where all random things fell into place. Bending down, something hard poked his thigh and he blinked. Hand slinging into the lined pocket, he pulled out the gun from earlier, gave it a glance, and then placed it up top next to the glowing alarm clock.

Francis' head turned at the clink, eyes going wide as his gaze fell onto the gun. "You took that into the hospital?" he asked in disbelief. Hospital security should really be looked at.

The gauze finally found, he turned with a low blush on his cheeks. "Well, yes. I forgot alright?" Really, the gun wasn't really on his mind at that time. It had mostly been 'Francis' and 'hospital' blaring over and over again. He stood up, glancing down at Francis sitting down on the bedspread, leaning back slightly. He had to clear his throat and shut the door as a warm coil of heat settled on his stomach.

Smiling up at him, Francis playfully snatched the gauze out of Arthur's hand, before gently catching his arm as well. Standing up, he used his height and leverage to maneuver Arthur onto the bed. Blue eyes scanned over the man in front of him, having to take a deep breath and calm himself as a familiar fervor took over. Covering it up with a small hum, he sat next to England, fighting a smirk as the sagging bed nearly toppled Arthur on top of him. Moving slowly, he helped Arthur out of his shirt, mindful of his injured hand, his humming filling the silent air.

Nimble fingers started to undo the buttons on his shirt, and Arthur glanced down to the bruise with a silent sigh. He finished undoing his shirt and swept the fabric to the side so France would have access to the wound. As he waited for the wrapping he tried to place what song he was singing, the tune unfamiliar.

Sapphire eyes stared at England's chest, at first unsure of where to look. His gaze soon found the ugly darkening bruise. The corner of his lips tugged down in a slight frown as he gently ran his fingers over the injured flesh. It was radiating heat, the bruise still fresh and angry. Francis' eyes quickly locked onto the invisible, unmarred spot on Arthur's chest, something he had mapped in his head about a week ago. His eyes smiled while his face remained serious, focused as he let his fingertips trail up to the spot.

A jolt went through his body and Arthur flushed as Francis' fingers brushed over the sensitive part of his skin. He stifled any noise and looked to Francis with a small glare. "W-what are you doing?" France's lithe fingers flickered again and he squirmed.

France buried a smirk, moving to peer closer at the skin. "Making sure the damage is only located with the bruise, _Angleterre_," he explained, pausing to look up at him. "Why?" he further pressed, innocence and confusion thick in his voice. Arthur looked beautiful in this light, almost like some angel sent straight from god. Not even the bruises could put a chink in his perfection.

Green eyes flickered to Francis' face, meeting ocean blue and then back to the floor. He squirmed once more at the ghost touches, feeling the sensitivity flush all over his body. "B-Because," he muttered, giving a half-hearted glare. He squirmed once again, this time moving away from the fingers. He wouldn't admit to how much it was affecting him and he bit the inside of his cheek.

Francis ghosted over the spot again, cocking his head to the side. "Because...what?" he asked, his brows pulling together, feigning innocence once again. He felt heat starting to settle in the pits of his stomach, a tingling running up and down the length of his body.

Biting his tongue against the moan that was threatening to fall from his lips, England flushed more, slightly from embarrassment that he was getting riled up from the touches and partly from the touches themselves. He looked back to Francis, eyes challenging, or at least he hoped they were. "Stop th-that." He tried to pull away again wiggling out of range. "It-" he paused with a pant.

He glanced back up at the wiggling man before him, his expression unreadable, barely resisting the urge to smile at the dying glare in the Absinthe eyes. "If you pull away, Arthur, I can't wrap your ribs," he said evenly, trying to mask how throaty his voice was becoming. He wanted Arthur to make this choice, not that he wouldn't try and help him to a certain decision.

Watching him carefully, Arthur took a breath of air and frowned. That really wasn't fair to suddenly stop. Not that Arthur would admit it out loud. He sighed and leaned back towards Francis. "Fine."

Deciding to behave for a while, Francis took up the gauze and started to unwind the bundle and set to work. He moved slowly, wanting to make sure he bound the ribs perfectly. As moments passed, his hands seemed to "accidently" ghost over the spot again and again, half lidded eyes noticing how Arthur's body tensed and quivered with each touch. Finally he paused with a sigh, moving to trail his fingers up and down Arthur's spine teasingly. "You need to relax Arthur," he cooed, his position making his breath puff onto England's skin.

He shivered, and it had nothing to do with being cold. Turning his head slightly to meet Francis's gaze, he pulled away slightly from his fingers skimming his skin, heat coiling more and more in his stomach. "Would you…" he paused and bit back a moan. "Cut that…out." It finally fell from his lips, low and needy, and he tensed up.

Once more, Francis turned his blue eyes up at him, dragging his fingertips agonizingly slow up the spine, relishing every movement of every muscle beneath the other's skin. "Do you really want me too?" he questioned, the same heavy confusion in his voice. He could feel pleasure building, want growing.

"I said cut it out," Arthur growled lowly, and then pushed off the bed and kissed him.

France couldn't help but smile into the kiss, the gauze dropped and forgotten as he moved to do featherlike work with his hands, annoyance growing as the brace limited his movement. It was soon forgotten as Arthur responded to his touch.

With a shiver and a moan against the kiss as it deepened, a fire lit up in Arthur's eyes and he pushed Francis down to the bed, towering over him as he pulled away from the kiss. "You aren't a very good listener." Francis looked so beautiful with his hair splayed out like that, blue eye flickering in amusement. It took too much to not simply devour him there.

Reaching up and pulling Arthur deeper, letting his passion transfer to the other country from his kiss. He continued moving his hands, flickering over the spot on his side, over and over again. Pulling away, a smirk found its way onto his face. "Never have been." The look on Arthur's face as he arched towards him, the blush that seemed to shine from his skin, he wanted to make Arthur his, now and here.

"Git," he breathed and spread his hands down Francis' chest, though he frowned as he felt cloth rather then taunt skin. He paused to think of the fastest way to get him out of the cloth barrier.

Francis could feel the hesitation in Arthur's body and used the moment to clasp Arthur around his waist. He smirked as the he let out a gasp of surprise as Francis flipped him over, coming to straddle his hay haired love, pinning him down. France took a moment to look his captive over, before a growl made its way from his throat and he moved in to claim Arthur's mouth again.

Lips crushed together and breath melding, England slipped his hand under Francis' shirt, mapping out the divots and curves of his chest. He moved his mouth to Francis' jaw, kissing him greedily and passionately, while trailing down to the divot of his neck and shoulder. Arthur's fingers entwined into his golden hair and shirt lightly, pulling him closer.

Chuckling deeply, Francis began trailing his hands delicately over Arthur's exposed skin. He purposely avoided the bruise as he worked his way down England's chest while his mouth latched onto the crook of Arthur's neck. He coaxed the skin between his lips caringly, while his left hand finally found it's way to the band of Arthur's pants, his fingertips grazing the swelling bulge between his legs.

A low whine fell from Arthur's throat at the touch and then looked up to Francis, he pulled at his t-shirt with a frown. "Shirt. Off," he muttered, and moved his hands down his chest.

Francis used the opportunity to claim Arthur's mouth again, their tongues dancing together before Arthur pulled away to gulp some air. "Patience, _Mon lapin_," he said deep in his throat. He leaned forward to nibble a newly discovered sensitive spot behind his ear.

Panting lightly and eyes half lidded, he gave a shiver and then frowned slightly, arm falling around Francis' back. "I am not a rabbit." His hand snaked up under the shirt again and rubbed at the darker flesh of his nipple.

A tiny moan escaped his lips before his undamaged hand found its way to Arthur's eager flesh, squeezing and toying with his love's nipple. "Yes you are," he said heartily before clamping his mouth on the other, swirling his tongue around the organ, trying to coax another moan from the nation.

The panting increased and he arched back, taking in a shuddered breath. "Am…not," he muttered nearly incoherently from the sparks of pleasure and the deep heat slowly traveling down.

Francis pulled back, panting as well, his warm breath making Arthur's skin break out in goose bumps. He smirked, the look on his face feral and overcome by lust. A deep chuckle worked out from his throat as he locked his eyes with his beloved. "Oh?" he whispered, letting his hand trail over the bulge again, applying pressure in teasing circles.

Swallowing, Arthur looked up with bright eyes and a smirk from the mattress. "No. Because rabbits can't do this." And with those words he kissed Francis' throat and then flipped him onto his back, careful not to smack the brace into anything. Sitting on top of him and straddling his waist, he gave a challenging grin as he kept his eyes trained on his while slipping a hand down the band of his jeans.

"_Merde_!" Francis moaned. His mind sent into a blanket of white pleasure at the feeling of Arthur touching him.

A smirk curled on his lips as he watched Francis writhe for a moment as he continued to palm him through the fabric of his boxers. Finally he was getting a response and he tilted his head lightly. "Told you so."

Arthur's voice made its way passed the haze, another chuckle crawling up his throat at the challenge. Francis Bonnefoy was not one to submit, not even to the likes of Arthur. "We'll have to change that," he muttered, working to keep his voice even as Arthur continued his administrations. To distract himself, he brought his hand up to graze Arthur's thighs, before making their way to the other's bulge.  
Thoughts slipped away and for a moment it was only the feeling of pleasure that took over his senses, that was until Arthur realized what he was doing and glanced down with a smirk for a challenge. "Is that so?" His fingers pulled up and out, unzipping the jeans slowly.

Francis matched the smirk, while unzipping Arthur as well. "_Oui_," he hummed before bucking and off balancing Arthur. He flipped him over hastily, watching as if in slow motion as his honey hair splayed out on the bed spread, the bed enveloping him. Moving quickly, Francis pushed Arthur's hips down with his braced hand, leaving his uninjured hand to continue with his works.

Startled, Arthur tried to get back up. "Hey!" he snapped and growled, grabbing Francis' hips and trying to flip him back over and under him.

Using his balance and height, he kept Arthur beneath him, while freeing his bulge from the confines of his pants. He brushed against it, teasingly slow, taking in every sight of Arthur quivering in pleasure from his touch. Suddenly he pulled back, listening with delight to the displeased whimper that escaped the island nation. Another chuckle flowed form his throat as Francis bent down and blew gusts of hot air onto Arthur through the slit of the dress pants and fabric of his underwear. "Do you still wish to protest, _mon lapin_," he asked breathily.

Coherency was gone and Arthur tilted his head back, exposing the column of his throat. "Ye…ergh." He grunted and glared at the blond above him. "Nn…no." His fingers entwined into the sheets of the bed and Arthur twisted his head so he was looking up at him from one side, his cheek pressed into the cool sheets. "You're still fully dressed."

Body humming as Arthur finally admitted submission, Francis found himself tingling with anticipation. Another smirk graced his lips before he bent down and gave a feather light kiss to Arthur's encaged cock, watching in delight as it jumped eagerly at the touch. He did it again, bringing with it another soft moan, before locking his hungry eyes with those of the impatient Englishman. "Do you wish to help me with that, _mon amour_?" he asked huskily.

It really shouldn't be legal how easily Francis' touches sent him to the brink of incoherency. "Y-yes," he breathed, body oversensitive and needy. He arched his hips up slightly, eyes shutting for a fraction of a second.

Francis prayed that this image of Arthur would remain burned in his head forever. He pondered if Arthur would kill him if he decided to paint a portrait of him like this...most likely. Taking a moment to drag his hand down the pale chest before him, before reluctantly pulling away and moving to tugged his own shirt off. The movement caught his hand unaware and a sudden surge of pain throbbing angrily from his injured appendage. It was soon chased away as he felt warm hands greet his skin.

Eyes now halfway open and seeing the cloth finally uncover Francis' chest, he reached up and caressed it, placing every thing into memory. He trailed his hands down across his ribs, over his navel, and to the trail of hair leading lower. He stopped there however and gripped his waist.

The smile, which now seemed permanent upon his face, only grew wider as he did the same, watching in amazement as muscles rippled beneath pale skin. His fingers caught on the hem of Arthur's open pants, tugging at them gently before looking up at the red stained cheeks. "These should go, no?" he asked, moving his hand to accent each word with another teasing caress to Arthur's eager organ. "We don't want to ruin them."

Not bothering to answer, he simply bucked his hips up more to help the offending clothing fall off. A moan worked up through his throat at the caresses and he pressed his head further into the mattress, breath speeding up.

Francis watched idly till he was done, blue eyes gazing lustfully into green. So close to seeing Arthur in all his glory. He fingered the last piece of clothing, breath hitching for once not from Arthur's beauty. Thrown from his lust for a moment, he looked back up at England, amusement in his eyes as he arched an eyebrow.

Feeling Francis still, Arthur glanced up with a frown. He didn't miss the amused look in his eye and though it sent a fretful minute of 'what the hell is he laughing at?' he simply set a glower towards him. "What?"

Francis grinned mercilessly as he recognized the gag gift he had given him for secret Santa years ago. They portrayed cartoon bunnies in all different emotions. He had thought Arthur had thrown them away years ago. He bent over and kissed the divot of Arthur's hip, taking a moment to lightly nip the flesh. "Not a rabbit hmm?" he asked playfully.

Flushing bright red from his cheeks and down to his chest, Arthur cleared his throat and began to mumble sourly under his breath. "Belt up…they're comfortable." He dared Francis to laugh any more.

Letting his laugh die down to a deep chuckle before getting back to business. Slowly tugging them down, he moved back to finally leave Arthur in his perfection. He looked him up and down, trying to ingrain this also in his mind forever. Francis had never believed this would actually happen. Doubt started welling up inside of him as he moved to almost shyly locked his eyes with waiting emerald. "You sure, Arthur?" he asked, trying to make sure he wouldn't kill him for this later.

The question surprised the island nation and he raised a brow at it. Really, why would he allow him to basically strip him if he wasn't sure? He tugged on his shoulders, bringing him closer until all he could see was his face and those bright eyes of his. He turned his head and kissed his bicep. "Don't be a git."

"Alright," Francis replied, the feral tone taking over as he brought his left hand down to Arthur's cock, beginning to stroke it gently and sensually. Blue eyes watched passively as Arthur's face twisted in pleasure.

He writhed under the touch, gasping and pulling Francis closer by holding onto his back and shoulders. Arthur glanced up at Francis just for a second before looking to the ceiling as a particular move of his hand brought a choked gasp.

Pressed faster by the sounds Arthur was making, Francis found himself move faster, stroking his eager, fully erect cock faster and faster. He could feel the green-eyed man's hips trying to buck, his braced hand still pressing them down. It was amazing, throughout all of this, the pain in his hand was numbed, taking a back seat to passion and want building inside of him. Hoping the same could be said for Arthur, he eyed the bruised side, worried how it would hold with how much Arthur was gasping. Giving Arthur's member another careful squeeze, he pulled back, finding himself panting and painfully hard himself. Gulping deeply and slowing his own breathing, he bent down and took Arthur into his mouth, feeling his lover's cock jump at the warmth. Slowly, he began to swirl his tongue up and down his shaft, caressing the tip.

With a small cry from the pleasure that shivered and swelled through his body, it took everything to not buck his hips up. He gripped the sheets tightly, chest heaving as another deep moan emitted from his throat.

Francis growled at the sound, feeling himself harden ever more while listening to Arthur. He could hear the vibrations making Arthur pant harder and writhe under his touch. Relaxing his throat, he began to move up and down Arthur's shaft, taking turns of gently grazing his teeth over the sensitive skin. France wished he could see the look on Arthur's face, but the sound painted a nice picture.

Fingers curling and threading though golden hair, he knew he wasn't being close to quiet, but turned his head to the side rather then arching his hips up as his body was pleading. Looking down over his chest at Francis he then shut his eyes again, the feeling almost euphoric as pleasure melted though his nerves, muscles, and bones.

Purring again, Francis let his left hand move between the sensitive skin right before Arthur's entrance. Gently pressing up into it with a knowing hand, he placed a right amount of pressure on the prostate. He didn't have to wait long before he felt Arthur respond to his touch.

Toes curling, most likely bringing the burn of a cramp with it, Arthur gasped again, air burning down his throat as his legs went to knock together, but hugged Francis instead. A sound that could only be a mewl crept out and Arthur flushed, mostly from passion and pleasure. He could feel himself on the brink, the wall of pressure building higher and higher. "Fr-Francis," his words stuttered from the panting.

Francis could feel the tightening of Arthur around him, knowing that he was close. He began moving faster, pumping and humming and swirling his tongue. Giving Arthur's shaft one last squeeze before moving to hit the gland again, combining all of the movements to bring his beloved into bliss.

The world went to white, and it was hot, sticky and fluid…and oh god. He choked out a groan, maybe a cry, and fell back onto the mattress with a deep breath, his body having arched as release came.

Francis started as he felt Arthur's warm seed hit the back of his throat, feeling Arthur's member softened. Pulling back, he gulped with a grimace, letting the salty taste of Arthur slide past his tongue. Turning to look at Arthur's flushed face, his eyes still hungry. Arthur's face, as well as his pants made his own erection pulse with the need to be released. His boxers already damp from the weeping precum. He wanted Arthur, he needed Arthur.

Lying still on the bed, Arthur gazed at the ceiling as he let his breathing slow down. He rolled his neck and then shifted his weight up, resting on his arm as he looked to Francis with a smile, pulling him up and down to his chest. He latched onto his mouth with a kiss, and then moved to his cheek with another.

Francis deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue in again, muscles dancing passionately in urgency and need. Pulling back when his lungs burned with the need for air, his blue eyes bearing into Arthur's. He couldn't help but let his gaze travel down Arthur's body, his panting and quivering driving him insane. _Mon Dieu_! What this man could do to him!

Arthur met his stare and let his own become a bit challenging and playful. Francis' lower thigh brushed against his own naked one and he wrapped his hands around his lovers back, feeling the sinewy muscles ripple. "I think we still need to take care of you," he hummed gently.

Smirking lovingly and hungrily at his love as he felt the man below him start to move. Fire danced up and down his spine at the touch, not helping the growing ache in his loins. "Are you sure?" he couldn't help but ask. This all seemed so surreal, some wonderful dream. His left hand went back to gently stroking Arthur's side, marveling at how soft the skin was, beneath the damp coating of sweat.

With a snort at the words, Arthur turned his head to the side and looked at him coyly as his legs rubbed along his inner thigh, following the inseam up. "Would you stop acting like I'm made of glass? You're the one with the broken hand." He leaned forward, arching his hips away and kissed his jaw lightly, then moved down his throat with an array of butterfly pecks.

Letting his smile widen into one of playfulness before enticing Arthur into letting out more of those moans that made his stomach do flips. Francis could care less about himself, as long as he made Arthur feel like the king he was, that's all that mattered. Another whine and tug at the waistline of his jeans from Arthur made him pause. Giving another stoke to Arthur's re-hardening cock, he paused to the task of removing his now too tight jeans.

Twisting slightly, Arthur watched the darker cloth of the denim roll off his hips. Impatient, he dipped a hand into the back of Francis' boxers and cupped his bottom. "These too." The mutter was quickly moving from playful to lust driven.

Pausing before shaking his head and looking back at him. "So impatient," he muttered in mock disbelief.

"Patience was never in my repertoire." He tugged at the elastic and let it fall back against Francis' skin with a light snap. Lips grazing over his chest, he paused at a nipple, breathing on the darker flesh before moving down towards his stomach.

"Hmm," Francis hummed, easily stripping off his boxers. A shiver ran throughout his body as the cool air hit his skin, a small sigh of relief passing his lips. He had to admit; he did feel a lot better.

Arthur let both hands trail down, ghosting just above his skin and finally trailed softly between his thighs, caressing and swirling upwards with the tips of his fingers. "That's much better." He looked up with a lopsided grin and crushed his cracked lips into Francis' eager ones.

Smiling into the kiss, he gave another gently peck before pulling back and trailing his hand down the soft flesh of Arthur's thighs. Cradling his hip caringly, he gazed into Arthur's eyes. "Try and relax, _mon lapin_," he hummed huskily. Taking three of his fingers into his mouth, he quickly but thoroughly coated them with his saliva, his desire and the lust and urgency in the emerald green stopping him from looking for something more suitable. Removing them, he brought them down, and slowly probed a single finger into the tight entrance, shuttering in anticipation as the warmth swallowed the lithe digit.

Arthur tensed lightly, all muscles tightening at the sudden change he hadn't been quite expecting yet. Letting out a breath he focused on loosening everything as the air swished out of his lungs. His head had picked up and he let it fall back to the mattress, watching Francis without trepidation and instead with trust.

Slowly and carefully, Francis began to guide his finger in and out, watching for any signs of pain that may mar Arthur's cherubic face. As he felt his lover relax, he gently added another finger, pausing as it drew anguish from the man beneath him.

In response to the light pain, a hiss of strained air flew from Arthur's clenched jaw. His fingers tightened around Francis while pressing his head harder into the mattress, eyes still watching the other man move above him.

Francis paused, trying to give him time to calm his breathing, before he realized that he had stopped breathing. "Breathe, Arthur," he cooed, beginning to gingerly making a scissoring motion with his fingers, trying to stretch England. A slight frown stretched his lips in a thin line. Regret started swirling in his eyes. He didn't want to hurt his love anymore than was necessary.

Obeying, Arthur breathed through his nose slowly. He always hated this part, and Arthur's face twitched slightly as a low throb of pain passed through him. He noticed Francis' pausing and shook his head lightly. "Keep going," Arthur muttered, still breathing through his nose and hissing it out between lightly clenched teeth. Green eyes fluttered close for a heart beat. It really was more of an annoyance then anything, and he waited for the Frenchman above him to continue. He focused on France's face and tapped his arm gently as reassurance.

Smiling, he leaned forward and claimed Arthur's mouth with sweet passion. Pulling back and moving to kiss the divot of his hip. He slipped in the third finger, flinching as he heard Arthur hiss in pain. "Bare with me, _mon lapin_, it will feel good soon," he promised, hoping it would be true. Moving his fingers about, flexing inside, looking for the right spot.

"Well it would have been better if you had–," at this Arthur paused to gasp and stop wiggling, a familiar and pleasurable sensation taking over the pain. "–had used something." He twisted lightly, moving his head to the side while his bangs swept over his eyes and ground his teeth together.

Francis' voice fell back into the husky, feral tone. "Would you have let me stop and look for something," he asked, twisting his hand slightly as he brushed a familiar bundle of nerves through the wall of sensitive flesh.

England arched, head and forearms lifting his back up in a light arch. His curled his toes lightly and then relaxed once more while looking up in surprise at France. "I'm…I'm just saying–" he trailed off with a grunt which slowly morphed into a low and pleasured moan.

Heart fluttering as Arthur arched towards him, he paused as his love's moans brought his nerves alive. Leaning forward, he began ravishing his mouth as the overwhelming need to be with Arthur completely took over. He continued, meshing their hot lips together, pulling away only when they were both gasping for air. "You talk too much," he growled lustfully, picking up the movements of his fingers, hitting the spot again.

Absinthe eyes widened at the jolt of pleasure, air leaving his lungs sharply. His fingers tried to claw at Francis' back, trying to bring him closer as he gasped out, "Fra-Fran…" His voice trailed off once more as his mind went blank and everything but need flew away. One hand dropped to the bed, clutching the sheets like a lifeline as the faint realization that clawing his lover's back was probably not a good idea flickered hazily.

Smirking in victory, Francis felt Arthur's new throbbing erection brush against his abs. He pulled back, sliding his fingers out of his love, pausing to drink in the sight of Arthur withering in pleasure. Reaching down, he began rubbing his own cock, spreading pre-cum to help lubricate himself.

This momentary pause allowed Arthur to collect himself and he smoothed out his gasping and rapid heartbeat. It was an age-old trick used from sniping to keep his body from tensing and just mellow out and relax. Finally calmer, he opened his eyes and gazed steadily into blue. There was a sudden urge to tangle his fingers in his golden hair, but instead he moved his fingers around his arms.

Francis glanced down at Arthur when he was ready, lightning blue eyes burned with want and hunger, lust and need. "Deep breath, Arthur," he instructed before moving to position himself at Arthur's entrance, left hand resting on his knee. France pulled them apart a little more, allowing himself more room and a better view of his love's creamy body.

Simply nodding, England lay back down to the bed, flush against the sheets and waited, ready and eager for it to begin. Warm air rushed through his lungs in a slow draught of breath.

Body shaking with excitement, Francis calmed himself till Arthur had almost swelled his lungs full of air. As the divine body before him had relaxed, he began to gently push himself into the Englishman, gasping and grimacing at the electricity it sent through him. Feeling Arthur's tightness and heat surround him was almost too much to bear. He heard and felt the green eyed man tense and hiss at the intrusion, but he knew if he stopped it would only be worse.

There was an instinct to shut his legs as there was a bit of burning pain while Francis entered slowly, but Arthur instead let the tenseness stay in his jaw and back as he squeezed it out with his hand balled in the sheets. He remained silent, but his right hand encircled Francis' forearm and anchored there tightly. Not shutting his eyes, Arthur kept a steady gaze on his lover's face, engraving it to memory despite the hiccups of a few winces.

Francis couldn't hold back the moan as he became fully sheathed in Arthur, eyes squeezing shut as he resisted every urge to move. He felt himself shuddering at the feeling of being completely in his love, fire erupting from where they were joined. "_Merde, lapin_, you're s-so tight," he growled, before letting out a gasp as Arthur's body shuddered around him.

"Shut up for a minute," Arthur growled between a pant, waiting for the pain to fade and for his body to adjust. In all honesty, it had been a while and so he frowned to himself for a brief pause, eyebrows furrowing together. When the pain had receded to something subtler, he opened his once tightly shut eyes and gave him a nod to continue. His fingers moved upwards toward his shoulders, grazing the golden taunt skin. "Move."

Opening one sapphire eye, Francis nodded before gently and painfully slow thrusting in and out, pausing to gauge Arthur's reaction before going again. It was all the golden hair man could do not to ravish him right there, but he remained cautious, only picking up his pace when he bought moans from the man beneath him. Pausing once more when he was again fully in, Francis rolled his hips, wanting to feel every side of Arthur, the motion bringing a not so quiet mewl from the Englishman. A smirk worked its way onto Francis' face, his curtained hair covering the grimace of pleasure as he drove into Arthur again and again.

Arthur's moans were not so quiet any longer, becoming more vocal as pleasure tensed and built up, filling every nerve and smothering him. He arched up, bringing his hips to meet Francis' controlled thrusting and let out a small 'ah' at a particular warm sensation. Looping around his neck, Arthur pulled him quickly into a kiss, though in the passion he missed part of his mouth. Cracked lips were eternally parted with gasps and heavy breathing.

Francis leaned into a kiss, wanting to be with Arthur as much as he could as his braced hand found it's way to his creamy colored hip. He held it down as he began to move with more fervor, his nerves on fire, the warming and knotting in his stomach intensifying with every thrust, every time Arthur's warm breath ghosted across his skin. A guttural moan worked its way up from his core.

Pulling away from the kiss to regain some air, Arthur went to attack his mouth again when Francis' came down and suddenly there was a burning haze of warmth, pleasure unlike that from earlier. He gasped and it faded into a moan as he dipped his head onto Francis' shoulder and entwined one and into his hair. The world had gone white just for that second and when coherency brushed against Arthur's mind once more, he kissed him again– this time more fervently and ardently.

Blue eyes took in every aspect of it, watching as Arthur's face twisted in pleasure, the way he threw his head back, his hair tousling to form a halo around his head. He felt himself grow harder, more needy, the feelings stealing his breath. Soon he was panting, against the heat that the two of them were creating. Nothing could compare to it, nothing could explain it, except maybe, _au mon dieu_! Without a second thought, his left hand scooped under one of Arthur's knees, pulling and positioning himself so he could go deeper. The result was exceptional, nearly making him double over in pleasure. A choked moan from his lover brought with the knowledge that he had found it, that special spot that would send Arthur over the edge again and again.

With a grunt at a particularly feverish thrust, Arthur moved his hand to enclose about his shoulder, feeling the muscles write under his golden hued skin as he moved. Arthur's head was now flush against the sheets once again, but his back arched up in need, hips lifting to stay close with his lover. "Francis…" he moaned and turned his head, the pressure in his stomach becoming white hot and nearly unbearable with the pleasure. Everything felt on fire, everything. He glanced up into Francis' face, unable to express how beautiful he looked, for his words were slowly dying to the fire they had created.

Hearing the need in Arthur's voice was like nothing Francis had every experienced before. He couldn't help but quicken his pace, his stomach and loins becoming hot and pulsing with the need to release. Releasing his hip, Francis' right hand intertwined with Arthur's, hazily noting that he doesn't feel any form of pain, only hot pleasure as it assaulted every inch of his body.

Arthur smiled at the feeling of the fingers entwined with his, but it was soon replaced by a burning crackle of euphoria, engulfing his senses and leaving him blind and deaf to the world as it burned down to him and Francis and movement. There was pleasure–oh god it was almost too much–and his body began to tense as he came to the brink, like a well about to overflow. He raised his hips again, thoughts even slowly dying to a haze.

Francis could feel, actually feel each tremor through Arthur's body, as his own manipulations brought him closer to the edge. Truth be told, he wasn't that far off himself. His limbs found new strength, as his left hand cupped and pulled Arthur's hips up towards him, driving hard against the wonderful bundle of nerves that would send his beloved over the edge. He wanted to do this for him, to let him feel release, to lose control.

A cry fell from his lips as release came, quickly and hotly. His back arched up on it's own accord as he rode out his climax, all muscles stiff. For a moment the world faded– blurred out of recognition, and the last vestiges of hot pleasure filled him. Arthur collapsed back onto the mattress, eyes shut and drinking in air furiously.

Unable to contain himself any longer, Francis grunted Arthur's name before his own release came, brought on as the spasms of his lover's climax sent him over the edge with his final thrust. It a rush, he felt a wave of warmth was over him, taking with it the blanket of tension and pressure that was building to the point where he was sure he was going to burst. His seed emptied into Arthur, filling him where his cock could not, bringing with it a gasp from the man below him. The world faded to white, removing everything that was not Arthur. Utter bliss came over him, and Francis felt as though he might have gone to heaven. Perhaps this is why his people called this _le petit mort_, the little death. As the feeling subsided, he found himself panting still, trying to calm his breath as he felt exhaustion start to dwindle throughout his muscles. Letting out a sigh, he slowly slid himself out of Arthur, at once missing the warmth of being surrounded by him.

Lying quietly on the bed, Arthur noted as he slowly came down back to earth and rest just how sticky he was. He frowned briefly, knowing he'd shower later, but was too tired and content to move anyway. Instead he let his eyes flutter close and listened to Francis move about, waiting for him to fall by his side.

Arthur didn't have to wait long, as exhaustion took away what little strength he had and Francis willingly collapsed next to him, their hands still intertwined. Closing his eyes, he pulled Arthur to his chest, wanting to cradle the man and continue to share warmth. His hand was no more than a dull ache, barely registering as they laid still.

Pulling up closer so he was lying nearly flush against him, Arthur tilted his head slightly and pecked his collarbone gently. He turned his head to the side, looking up to Francis slightly as he stayed still in the silence, the only noises breaking it were their breaths and the rustle of sheets.

Fumbling with some discarded sheets, Francis tugged the thin layer over the both of them before closing his eyes once again and resting his cheek atop Arthur's head. He quirked a smile as he felt Arthur cuddle even closer to him, letting out a sigh of content

Dipping his head down and focusing his green eyes onto Francis' chest, hand running over some of the finer hair, he let his thoughts come back into the quiet disarray he had left them. One particular thought burned angrily at the forefront of his mind and on his tongue, until he swallowed–not sure why it felt difficult or hard to say such few words since the sex they had just partook in had to be more intimate. "I…love you," the words were quiet and mumbled. His eyes stayed looking down at the expanse of skin before him, face burning slightly.

Francis smiled at the words before he froze. Wait...what? Arthur had said 'I love you'? And he wasn't dying. Francis opened his eyes and looked down at the man, blue softening as delight danced behind them. He watched as his gaze caused Arthur to curl further against him, seemingly determined to hide his face in Francis' toned chest. Smiling sweetly, he let the words roll off his tongue. "_Je t'aime de tout mon coeur_." The words brought the green gaze back to his own, and Francis soon found the pink of Arthur's lips too alluring to ignore. Gently and lovingly he pulled Arthur in a chaste kiss.

Chapped lips pressed back into the kiss and he closed his eyes, falling back to the sheets and pillows with relief. He relaxed in France's grasp, falling into the enchanting boundary between wakefulness and sleep.

Francis moved his able hand to calmly stroke Arthur's hair, listening as his angelic lover drifted into sleep. He smiled softly, wishing he could do the same. Something prodded at him from the back of his mind, as his eyes fluttered open and fell onto the window. Outside the world continued, the sun soft and the weather cool and calm. Francis knew that he was better, nearly as completely as he could be, thanks to Arthur.

Now it was his turn to return the favor.

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Once again, thank you all so much for being patient with us and we really appreciate all your comments._Chris

Ditto! Hope to hear what you guys think ^_^! ^Kage^


	12. Chapter 12

Hello all! I hope you are all doing well and that you will enjoy the next segment of the story. It's so sad it's drawing to a close, we have had so much fun writing this, but I hope you will check out our other joint fiction writing that is on Kagebecks27's homepage. (The link is on my profile if you want to read it) It's much darker then this, so that is a fair warning. Once again, thank you all for your amazing support!Please review!

_Chris

What's up people! I can honestly say that I am uber excited with how this came out. No more worrying about Francis! Yay! Anyway, Chris was right. I'm finally writing some of my own stuff now but that might take a back burner until this is finished, which will be in about one or two more chapters. Anyway, read and review, I want to see what you think ^^

^Kage^

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The air was cool after stepping out of the bedroom, and Arthur padded down the hall. A towel covered his head, drying his short wheat colored hair as he walked from memory. Coming to the last door, he paused and looked at it seeing that Francis' room was empty. Deciding that the other man had just gone down the stairs while Arthur had taken the shower, he shrugged lightly to himself and turned across the hall to enter his office.

Familiar dark wood gleamed back and the island nation dipped down to quickly glance at his phone, seeing new emails had sprouted up from his short time in the shower. Arthur sighed, scrolling through them and deeming all of them able to wait until Monday. With a light toss, the phone clattered quietly back to the desk and Arthur looked to the books lining the back wall. The room was too still and the light was grey as it streamed through the window. A tendril of a memory scraped his mind and he frowned, rubbing his hair once more before turning away from his office. Letting the door shut with a clack, he folded the towel and placed it on the banister before going down the stairs and hopefully to the living room where Francis might be.

It had been over a week since Russia had entered his home and over a week since Francis and Arthur had lay in bed. A ghost of a blush glowed on the Briton's cheeks and he cleared his throat, coming to the last step and finding the floor chilled. Sockless, he continued to pad through the hall and he looked to the cracked wall, white plaster blaringly painted every broken part of the wall and Arthur knew he would have to sand it down and paint it tomorrow– it looked ridiculous otherwise.

He brushed his hand over his jaw, freshly shaven, and winced slightly at the sight of the yellow mottled bruise left over from Ivan's visit. At least it was healing quickly, and the bruise from Francis' punch had healed a day or two ago.

Entering the living room, Arthur looked down to where Francis was situated on the couch, his leg dangling over the edge and resting on the floor. He looked relaxed at first glance, but England could see him fidget as he flipped a page over– blue eyes slowly dragging over the text. But seeing Francis was calming for Arthur and his posture relaxed slightly, tension eased away by the vision of blond hair and blue eyes. He took a seat at the edge of the couch, resting his back and shoulder against the couch's arm, and surveyed the room briefly, noting the same cold grey light filled the downstairs as it did upstairs. "What are you reading?" England questioned, absinthe eyes flickering as France fidgeted again.

Arthur's voice nearly made Francis jump out of his skin. He tried to hide all anxiety under a cool mask, not exactly looking forward to what he hoped to accomplish today. The scent of Arthur's shampoo calmed him a little, possibly just enough to move on with this facade. "Hmm," he hummed while looking up from the worn pages, trying his hardest to be nonchalant. A sudden thought occurred to him, and Francis quickly mentally checked that he did indeed lock and jam all the doors. "Just skimming through Les Miserables."

"Again?" Arthur asked with a light chuckle, rubbing at his damp hair while looking to the windows outside. It looked cold and dark outside, much better to be indoors with pleasant company. He reached towards the table, green eyes darting away from the grey light and to the blue book on the table. _Hard Times_ glittered back in worn gold and Arthur questioned if he wanted to read or just relax in silence.

"Hmm," Francis returned with another quiet hum, though no longer reading the print before him. Fidgeting again, the room seemed to drop a degree as a stale, awkward silence filled the air.

Arthur glanced to Francis seeing him fidget again and had an off feeling. One brow cocked, he turned to the book on the table and reached forward, pulling the cloth bound book into his fingers. Francis was probably just tired still – he was healing his hand after all. Arthur shrugged minutely and opened the cover, noting in alight pride that his chest had finally begun to ebb in its stiffness in pain from the fractured rib. All seemed to be going well finally and Arthur let a soft contented sigh fall.

Hearing the sigh, Francis almost didn't do what needed to be done. Shaking his head and steeling himself, he cast one last sideway glance at Arthur before gluing his eyes back to his pages. "How are you feeling today, Arthur?" It was the first thing that came to mind, but obviously not the way Francis hoped to start off what would be a difficult conversation.

Absinthe eyes flickered away from the black print. "Fine, why do you ask?" He looked back down to the book and shifted slightly to become more comfortable. Pressing his lips together, England tried to find his place in the book again, finding he had only gotten to the second page.

Perhaps a more direct approach then. Nodding to himself, Francis snapped the book shut, putting it off to the side so there was nothing in his way. "We need to talk," he said gravelly. France knew he had to keep strong throughout this and not let Arthur weasel his way out of it.

Again, Arthur let his eyes flicker up from the text and to Francis, who was this time looking at him rather than his own book. The sudden look of seriousness on his face made the island nation balk for a moment and he blinked. Shutting the book close, but keeping his thumb pressed to the page to keep his place, Arthur tilted his head with a small questioning hum. "About what?"

Staring back evenly at the green gaze, the Frenchman fought the urge to fidget. "Something I'm sure you're not going to want to talk about," he said quickly but evenly. Outside, the blond was calm and collected, inside he was groaning at his stupidity. So much for being direct.

Arthur gave up on the book entirely, setting it back down into his lap with a small frown. Something he wouldn't like? "And just, pray tell, might that be Francis?" he questioned, voice tinged in a mixture of slight irritation and confusion. He watched the Frenchman carefully, noting how his eyes seemed to be darker than lately.

"Just what happened all those years ago," Francis started lamely before pausing. That didn't clear anything up. Taking a deep breath, he made himself continue to stare into Arthur's eyes. "When you tried to take your own life."

Like a string snapped, Arthur suddenly stilled and tensed. Pulling into himself, he began to recede into the protective elements of his mind, sheltering himself instantly from the unsavory topic. "I have no idea what you're talking about." His voice was soft and even. A warning note edged each syllable and slowly the light and life in his eyes began to dim.

Moving forward at seeing Arthur try to escape into himself, Francis' own demeanor hardened. He had made it this far, and now there was no turning back. "You know exactly what I'm talking about." He knew he couldn't push too hard, but he couldn't be gentle either. Arthur had to talk about this.

Arthur pulled away, keeping his distance from France's touch. "There's nothing _to_ talk about," he commanded and warned, face equally hard. What made him bring this up? Why now? Arthur nearly cursed aloud for his slip of the tongue weeks ago, and felt the edge of the sofa press harshly into his spine.

"Stop lying, Arthur," Francis ordered back. Arthur wasn't the only one who could be stubborn. He leaned forward a little more, voice stern and gaze set. He wasn't going to let England let this go, neither of them could afford too. "I can see it still bothers you."

Gritting his teeth, Arthur pulled farther away from Francis and became defensive. "Francis, I'm telling you there is nothing to talk about." The tone of his voice added another layer of warning, that in years ago would have had others trembling. From the glint in France's eyes though, England realized that this was not the case with the other man. Keeping his words terse and clipped, Arthur snapped, "It was the past. It's over." Green eyes deviated away from Francis' and Arthur looked to the windows over his shoulder.

Taking a moment to make sure Arthur wouldn't bolt, he narrowed his blue eyes at his blonde haired love. "Then why are you reacting so badly, Arthur? If you were truly over it, you would be able to talk about it," France insisted. Deciding that his height might come in handy within the next few minutes, Francis moved to stand up from the couch, still mindful of his broken hand. He knew better than anyone what Arthur's temper was like, especially when he felt cornered.

Seeing the slight movement in the corner of his eyes, Arthur turned to face France, face void of even a flicker of emotion. Inside, he was silently seething at the fact this was being dragged up from the darker and shut off recesses of his mind and heart. He had dealt with this on his own, and he didn't need to be reminded of it. England's voice still had a sharp edge to his voice. "I'm not reacting badly, Francis." He sounded calm and Arthur turned dull green eyes to meet vivid blue ones. "You're making an issue where there is none." Slowly, he folded his arms and watched him icily. "I can see you're not going to drop this, frog. I'm going to make tea." Arthur placed one hand on the armrest and began to quickly move away, ready to storm off and ignore the other man until he dropped the ridiculous notion.

And the fight begins. Francis rose quickly, reaching out and snagging Arthur's arm before he could escape. He turned the green eyed to look at him. The air suddenly seemed stale and heavy; the look on Arthur's face was something he had only seen on the battle field at the worst times. "I have hidden your kettle Arthur!" He felt like a parent, telling a child that he had taken away his favorite toy as punishment. "I'll tell you where it is, but only after we talk."

England spluttered; face shading a light red before disappearing as he pulled his arm away furiously. His face remained dark and creased, reflecting the anger he wanted to show Francis. Inside, though…Arthur could feel the concrete barricades crumbling down the acidic affect of Francis' pushes. Dark shadows were sliding out between the cracks and Arthur turned away before they could show up in his eyes. "You have to be kidding me." He got up off the couch, a scalding frown on his lips as he growled and stormed into the kitchen. Minutes after banging and slamming drawers shut, Arthur began to heatedly swear in some of the choicest curses that he had garnered over the thousands of years he had been around. Old English, Gallic, Latin and even some ancient French slammed through the small tiled room, increasingly louder as the kettle remained missing.

France followed him to the kitchen. If Arthur was going to tire himself out with searching for the kettle, then so be it. He paused at the doorway, leaning on the jam while sapphire eyes followed the frantic movements of the man before him. The curses nearly brought a smile to his lips, though saddened that when Arthur appeared to be the most fluent in his precious language was when he was cursing someone's mother or such. He knew the Englishman couldn't be pressed too hard, but this wasn't something he could not keep bottled up much longer.

The shorter nation finally heaved an angry sigh and rounded on France, were if possible, he might have been spitting flames. "God damn it France! There is nothing to fucking talk about! Now tell me where the bloody fuck my kettle is and we'll just move along." He was giving him a chance before he just stormed off, but Arthur could already see the way the other man was tensing as though to stop him.

A deadpan look left his eyes, not backing down one inch. "No."

Glaring, trying to look malicious, England resisted the urge to swear nastily in French to spite Francis. Instead, Arthur furrowed one hand through his hair and surveyed Francis calmly. There wasn't even a flicker of the notion of backing down running though the other's eyes and Arthur's lips turned downwards angrily, clenching his hands tightly. He wasn't dealing with this. Fuck it. Arthur stalked forward, deciding to leave out the back door and take a long walk to cool down.

Francis followed him at a relatively safe distance, body tense in case Arthur decided to whip around. He could tell the man was seething, could almost taste it in the air. "Arthur, we need to talk about this!"

"No Francis, we don't." Arthur muttered bluntly, pausing as one hand grasped the cold metal of the door handle. "Now, please. Just fucking please leave this the fuck alone." He turned the door handle, but swore when it met resistance. He tried jiggling the door again, but realized it was jammed. The anger buzzing like a hive of furious wasps suddenly became that much more enraged. England turned around, dark eyes flashing with a new wave of rage. "What are you playing at?" he snapped.

Blue eyes watched him struggle with the door, relief washing over him as the door held. It had taken him a while to jam all the doors, a trick he had picked up during the world wars. He even managed to do some of the windows too when Arthur was in the shower. "I told you Arthur, I'm not letting this go," he said sternly. He continued to stare Arthur down, afraid to blink. "You helped me, now I'm trying to help you." Francis hoped he would take it. England had helped him so much, gotten him through something he couldn't imagine, but somehow he knew he was better off than Arthur was now.

Something nestled into a recess in his chest and Arthur's breath hitched lightly, however, he turned back to Francis and faced him with a cold glare. "I don't need it," he muttered softly, hoping to put Francis off. "There's nothing the fuck wrong, as I've said before." The shadows laughed at that, and Arthur shook his head sharply to send them back down to the dark abyss. He began to storm forward again– if Francis didn't want him leaving then fine. There were other rooms in the house with locks of their own. He brushed France off and stalked towards the stairs, mind aimed on getting up the stairs and locking himself in his room or office for a few hours.

Francis had calculated something like this might happen. There just wasn't enough time for him to jam those locks too. He moved in front of the charging nation, light on his feet like a fencer to block his escape. "Yes you do Arthur, you need this more than anything," he retorted. Apparently he had to make Arthur see this.

Seething, England deftly pushed Francis aside. Francis was fast, sure, but Arthur had hundreds of years of sparring against him and wasn't exactly slow either. His upper lip curled up as he snarled, "Fuck off. I don't need this." He made a break for the stairs, finally having an opening. Just get into a room and fucking lock the door so he could just shut down and think. He didn't want to remember. He sure as hell didn't want to remember because remembering meant reliving and feeling everything again. Call him a hypocrite, he wasn't doing this.

Cursing under his breath as somehow the smaller man got around him, Francis took off right behind him, determination burning in his blue eyes. Using his longer legs to his advantage, he climbed the stairs, two steps at a time, catching the fleeing Britton halfway up the stairs. Throwing his arms around Arthur's chest, he clasped his good hand around his wrist, pulling his captive into a bear hug. He felt Arthur gasp at the sudden attack, the stairs and grip casting him slightly off balance. France capitalized on the moment, adjusting so he could pick the hay haired man those precious few inches he need to keep his feet from gripping the stairs. "We are talking about this!" Francis muttered, his breath ghosting over Arthur's neck.

Arthur thrashed, trying to struggle away, but even through his anger he was mindful of trying not to harm Francis's hand or anything else. "W-What…Let me go god damn it!" Arthur tried again to shimmy out of Francis' grasp and swore as his chest pinged slightly in agitation and in frustration at Francis' strength. "Francis!" he roared, "You fucking bloody frog!" A sound of pure frustration left his lips that meant nothing.

"No." It was the only answer he gave before sucking in a breath. Careful not to crush Arthur's still healing ribs and his own hand, Francis carried him up the stairs and to the room he had been provided and actually called his own. Kicking the door shut behind him after he passed the threshold, he tossed Arthur onto the bed gently before moving to pin him down. "I don't care how long it takes, _Angleterre_. We are talking about this. It's not good to keep this stuff inside," he said sternly. His eyes softened as he met green counterparts. "You taught me that."

_Fucking hell_…Arthur thought miserably and glanced away, just for a brief moment, before he locked back onto Francis' eyes and glared. Pursing his lips, he stayed silent and still.

"No amount of glaring is going to get me to leave," Francis retorted. He didn't risk loosening his grip even a fraction, still using his own height and size to his advantage. He knew Arthur hated being pinned, heck France had his own nightmares about this, but he couldn't risk Arthur running away now. He could see it in the emerald eyes glaring at him. They were so close.

Simply looking to the side, Arthur could hear the sound of their breaths and the scraping of his head against the blankets. He was choosing to be belligerent and silent, he could out wait Francis. Arthur had to resist the need to tense his arms and shove Francis off though, and so he focused on that– tuning the world out. It had been years ago. It had been years ago.

"The longer you stay silent, the longer this will take," Francis reasoned, noticing that his grip with his right hand was weakening. He wouldn't admit it, but his hand was starting to hurt from doing this. The doctor's warning of what could happen if he over exerted his hand echoed in his mind. Francis shook his head sharply before turning back to meet Arthur's gaze. He would gladly take pins in his bones if it meant England would just let this out.

The pressure easing on Arthur's wrist could have been an opening– it should have been an opening, but all that Arthur thought of was that Francis was probably hurting his hand….that idiot. He looked away again, something breaking down as he remembered the look in Francis' eyes and the tone in his words. A breath of silence, and then, "…Let me go, please."

Caught off guard by the soft, calm voice, Francis only peered down, deep down into the green eyes. "Will you talk to me about this...please Arthur," he pleaded softly. The nation of France didn't beg or plead, but for his _Angleterre_, his Arthur alone, would he resort to it. He would do anything for his love. The look that his beloved was giving him let him know that the hard fight was over, and his grip loosened.

Arthur shifted slightly as Francis lightly and slowly began to relieve pressure. Their eyes still met and Arthur wondered how vivid and luminous blue could have been so dull and lifeless only weeks ago. "There's nothing…nothing–that's over." Arthur fumbled with his words slightly while becoming more and more hushed. "It's not like I still think about it Francis. I just don't." And it was true. When the shadows came out, he shoved them back in, no matter how much it felt like they could claw him apart. He had dealt with it already.

The tones that rang out hauntingly in Arthur's voice let Francis know that he wasn't going to run away anymore. He just couldn't. Releasing the Englishman from his grasp, he shifted back to allow the man to sit up. "You've buried it so deep inside that you think you don't. It's eating you up from the inside, Arthur. It will destroy you if you let it." _I know because it almost destroyed me._

Arthur didn't move, still lying on the bed and staring at the white ceiling. Ah, the irony of this all. England hummed, "If that's what you think." Silence blanketed them and Arthur moved his splayed hands down to rest against his sides, one arm protectively covering his stomach. "I hadn't even thought of it until…well…'that'." Arthur cocked his head to the side and glanced from the corner of his eye to Francis. Drumming his fingers once against the bed, he murmured, "I'm fine." Ignore the shadows and they'll ignore you. Maybe.

It was Francis' turn to be silent, the air feeling burdened. He was just watching him, eyes blank and even.

Arthur heaved a great sigh, eyes flickering back to the ceiling. "You're not going to let this go, are you?" His stupid idiotic slip of the tongue had brought this on him. No, of course he had to mention it, able to keep a secret for decades and he let it slip now. Arthur puffed another sigh and then frowned lightly. No, instead he had to be dragged through hell once more. Bullocks to his lover's good intentions.

Francis merely shook his head. Anything he said could stop this progress, and he wasn't going to risk that.

Arthur leaned onto his elbow, pushing himself up and looked out of the window, back pressed against pillows and the headboard. He let out a little sigh again, wondering just how much of an eejit he had been. "You wouldn't have even known." Arthur muttered to himself, in a silent off hand whisper that Francis shouldn't have heard.

"Wouldn't know what, Arthur?" Francis pressed slightly. If anything, he knew– he knew he was stupid and hadn't seen it. He hadn't been there for him.

Jumping slightly, England craned his head to look at Francis in surprise. He wasn't supposed to have heard that. "N-nothing." He dipped his head into his hand. The world went dark in the shadow of his palm and Arthur thought tragically of the night, one that Francis had seen and had never known. It should have stayed that way. Arthur winced at the biting and gnawing feeling the shadows left him with as fragments of memories began to swarm.

Francis eased himself to sit down beside his love, wanting nothing more than to take the man into his arms and help chase the darkness away. "It's something," France retorted, still watching the man carefully. "I really want to try and understand. This isn't something you should carry alone." Suddenly he couldn't bring himself to look at Arthur, the man who had done so much for him, and it didn't seem he could return the favor. "You made me see that."

Again, miserable guilt. Arthur glanced at Francis without meeting his eyes and then back to his hand. Ah, Francis. "Yes, well…you didn't have to deal with it alone." Arthur would have smacked himself if he had allowed Francis to go through it alone. "It's a terrible burden," England muttered softly, trying to alleviate whatever it was that was making the air so thick and oppressive. His eyes were drawn back to the grey skies outside. The day was nice, but the clouds made everything seem so grey and watery- dreamlike.

"So why are you making yourself do it?" Francis asked. He really wanted to know the answer to that. Why was he so willing to help him, when he had been so willing to go through it alone. France turned to look back at the Briton, his friend, his lover. Reaching out cautiously, he guided the reluctant face towards him, till emerald eyes met his. "_S'il te plait_ Arthur. Let me try and understand."

"I didn't mean…" Arthur's eyes roamed Francis' face, trying to pinpoint and discern the emotions on his face. The air hissed between pursed lips and Arthur glanced away, pulling his cheek away from Francis' hand. He felt old suddenly, as though all the years he had been alive had suddenly found him and wound around his body and lungs tightly. "You really are being a prick," Arthur said softly and wearily. Green eyes hid behind clenched lids. "What I say will never be repeated or questioned again. Alright?" Arthur's eyes flashed open and harsh and raw determination shone through. "I deal with my problem myself, and I've been damn proud of that."

Francis nodded seriously. He would only push Arthur this one time, that's all he felt England would need. "Of course, Arthur," he promised.

Looking to his fingers, Arthur let another long sigh drag out from his lungs, slumping in defeat. The fight was finally taken out of him. "Alright…" Absinthe eyes started to grow distant as he carefully took stock of the shadows roaming and taunting. "What did you want to know?" He glanced up at the Frenchman's face, slightly hesitant.

Gulping slightly, the robotic tone to Arthur's voice was unnerving to say the least. What did he want to know, that was a good question. This was his only chance to understand, but he didn't want to pry, he didn't want Arthur to turn his soul inside out just because he was curious. Shaking his head softly again, he couldn't think about himself anymore. This was all about Arthur, and he had to get it all out, every last word and feeling. "Everything," he finally whispered, blue eyes searching the dulling emerald before him.

"Everything…" Arthur trailed off, looking away once more and to the grey skies outside. "I see." He pulled up his knees, pulling his lithe body into a protective shell and rested his hands around them. They stayed silent for a while as Arthur gathered his thoughts, trying to only look briefly at memories he had steeled away and labeled forbidden. Already thinking of them hurt. "I just wanted to rest." He finally murmured sorrowfully.

He didn't look to Francis, and he couldn't hear anything from him either. "I was so tired, what with Ireland separating and that bloody Easter uprising, the war…" Again Arthur became quiet, thinking of decades long ago, and the watery night he had almost become lost in. Already he could see the iron surrounding him. Placing his head into his hand, he continued though his words were drawn and dark. "All that pain just hanging in the air from a generation lost –I just wanted to be at peace. I had to fix everything and nothing was okay."

Hadn't that been the truth for all of them? Maybe Alfred had been an exception, but the rest of the nations were left with war torn lands of the first Great War and vacantly staring at what had been. The world had become raw and new with a future that was suddenly uncertain. War had turn from glorious confrontation to something horrific and deranged. Arthur could remember that Francis had had a limp for a while from all the trenches dug into his country. "Nothing was alright," he echoed.

He could almost feel the rain beating against his skin as England dipped his head into his hands. "That night I had had enough." The resolution of those thoughts still scared him now and he could see the shadows grinning heartlessly at him as he blinked past the darkness of his palm. "I think I just wandered to the bridge then, I can't really remember since I didn't care. Maybe I walked around – maybe I just went there." He became silent and then admitted airily, "It was cold though and I couldn't feel anything."

Arthur knew he had turned his head away from his palm and was looking at Francis, but he didn't see him. No, he was standing on the dark iron bridge so many years ago, the bitter cold just as harrowing as the shadows that had clawed and caressed his skin and mind. "I got up on the rails then." The cold metal had felt sharp and slippery under his palms. "…just planning to jump into the river and drown in that black water." Ah, how it had seemed so inviting. How it glimmered….moved…. called for final darkness and night. "It would have been cold though, I think. I couldn't do it, I was too scared–too much of a coward even then." Bitter anger clipped his words and Arthur stared into the churning water.

"It rained so long and I was there for hours. It was quiet too." The city was asleep, Arthur noted while the metal was cold under his hands. The river ran on silent and patient for a slip of his foot. He took one step forward, allowing his toes to balance precariously on the rail. An abrupt laugh bubbled from his throat and Arthur smiled. "You know, I was out there so long, I couldn't tell which were tears and what was rain." Wasn't that funny? He thought it was terribly funny. A riot.

Arthur blinked, seeing the faint outline of the room past the dark liquid memory of that night.

Again he laughed, though it was weaker and more sorrowful. The sound echoed through the room and Arthur barely noted that someone else was there with him. This time when he talked again his voice was a little too high. "And then you came along, just when I had gathered up the courage to do it." He could see himself being startled as he heard the French accent float up behind him and Arthur had acted as cool and nonchalant as he could, slipping reluctantly away from the promises the black water whispered. "You know, you probably know more then I do." The memory became fuzzy from there– a mixture of hallucinations and nebulous reality only clarified by the susurrations the shadows told him at night, begging him to finish the job. "You were there after all."

Arthur shut his eyes, falling down to the bed and ready to leave it at that. Wasn't that enough for Francis? It felt too painful to talk, already he could feel the swelling of his throat and the gleam in his eyes as he told himself to keep the emotions down.

The words hit him like a bucket of ice water as he felt color drain from his face. Sapphire eyes looked down at the man beside him, surprise and astonishment radiating from behind them. _I was there?_ The shock wore off soon enough, replaced by something darker. _And I still didn't know! Stupid!_ He shook his head softly, remembering to deal with his self directed anger later. Arthur needed him now, to be here in the present and help him through this. Lifting his hand, he cautiously placed it over England's, trying to let him know that he was still here with him, and to keep him grounded as much as he could in the present. The Englishman had fallen silent through Francis' internal rant and he knew he had to bait him into talking again. "I was?" he muttered, trying to force genuine confusion into his voice.

Arthur shut his eyes, barely feeling the hand on his. He simply hummed meekly, not really focused on the world but sifting though the roiling and tumultuous memories as they ran coldly over his consciousness. The shadows writhed in glee as they saw what they had done. "Of course I couldn't fall in front of you." The sight of Francis' luminous face during that dark night, looking up to him in amused curiosity from under the shade of an umbrella bubbled into his mind. The words dripped off his tongue without conscious thought. "So I got down and went home with you. And that's when the fun began."

"Fall?" Francis mumbled, true confusion easily flowing in the single word. As if some sort of vacuum, France felt himself being drawn into the past, thousands of memories shifting past behind the serious ocean eyes. He slowly narrowed them, trying to focus and recall the time Arthur was talking about, feeling that he had to remember – that the needed to remember. The room was colder than he recalled, as the dark shadows of both their pasts had a field day with the men.

Lying down and lifting his eyes to the ceiling, Arthur noted somewhere in the back of his mind that with his hands clasped together, drawn away from Francis' hand, and lying so still he must look as though he were on his deathbed or wake. He chuckled though, a lopsided grin tugging at his pale lips until the chuckle became a full blown laugh. England listed his hand to his face, covering his clenched and watery eyes as he still laughed. "I got pneumonia from standing in the rain so long– punishment for being a coward I suppose. I thought then that was going to kill me off, but I was too weak to do anything to help it along." So many nights lying in feverish dazes, seeing the shadows creep out from the dancing flickers of candlelight as they surrounded him and hissed their warnings and orders. Spat their taunts and reasons why death was too good…he'd have to work for it now. They encircled him until he couldn't breathe or dawn broke and with sobs England had realized he was still alive and would go through another demented vigil yet again. "I got so ill, I couldn't move and stated to hear things…see things." Yes, the shadows had gotten to the point where should Arthur have had the strength to lift his hand, he might have clawed his eyes and ears out to just get relief from those bastards, because the truth hurt. It hurt like nothing else. Another laugh bubbled almost gaily from his throat as he clenched his teeth.

"Pneu-mon..." Suddenly it all rushed back to Francis! He had gone for a walk, well truth be told he had gone looking for Arthur, and had been caught in a potential down poor. He had found the Englishman sitting on the railing of the bridge in the middle of the night and without an umbrella. 'An Englishman without an umbrella, what a rare sight,' he had jested with him, unaware and completely ignorant to what had almost transpired. He had laughed at how he looked like a drowned rabbit, trying to make light of the time together until he got Arthur to walk home with him and share his umbrella. He remembered it was so cold, that even when he was relatively dry the chill sunk easily into his bones. Now, Francis flinched at his choice of words. His voice bubbled up from the memories. "T-the bridge...in London," he finally croaked out, eyes still distant, too many similarities appearing to him from the Arthur of the past and the one right in front of him.

"Of course the bridge in London. What other bridge would it have been?" Arthur stared into the blackness of his palm, not daring to glance at the Frenchman sitting next to him. The laughter was dying, like an ember and the numbness and fear was crawling back in, leaching away everything and nothing. His fingers tightened their hold on his temples. "By the time I got better though, I just couldn't care. I didn't care if I got better or worse. Nothing mattered anymore." It was then he had been chained and mastered by the shadows, their taunts so vicious the only way to be anything– be alive, be sane– was to fall into complete numbness. Shattering a wine bottle in his hands and gouging his skin hadn't even evoked a flinch during that dark and seemingly never-ending hell. It was, in hindsight, one of the most frightening things to be semi aware of and why he had been terrified for Francis. His voice cracked from the swelling of his throat and his lips twitched as he fought to maintain control of the despair welling inside. "That's why I was scared for you," he voiced quietly. England paused tearing his hand away only when he brought his knees to his chest and nuzzled his face into the cloth of his pants. He couldn't look up in fear of breaking.

All the while, Francis was still trying to deal with the fact that he hadn't noticed! How had he not noticed the man he cared about most in the world was turning hollow! Once more shaking his head, he bit the inside of his cheek to clear all other thoughts from his head. Blue eyes trained on Arthur and Arthur alone. Moving to reach out a hand to comfort him, he stopped short when he saw the subtle shaking. Doing a quick once over, he was heart broken as to how fragile the Britton looked. He pulled his hand back an inch, afraid that even the lightest touch would cause him to shatter. "Arthur..." he whispered, trying to reach him in some way.

The call didn't even resonate in Arthur's mind, like a sailor in a storm– he had missed the flash of the beacon and fought against the dark ice water of memories. "And then those nightmares," he muttered sadly, wondering idly when everything had seemed so brittle. "Those nights lying alone with only the thought to die but still too weak of strength and mind to do anything but cry." And cry and cry and cry until there was nothing left but blood and bones and hopefully soon, ashes. "All the nights and whispers…trying to scratch the shadows off." He had clawed his own skin in vain to stop the caustic lies from poisoning him further; there was still a light pink mark on his left cheek near the hairline from where he had gouged his skin with bloodstained fingernails. The rest of the marks had healed, but wormed their way to his heart and fed there. "It was quite bad," Arthur said calmly, flippantly– as though he was speaking of the weather. "At least until I got fucking mad at you two."

Since the beginning, a frown had been tattooed on Francis' face, brows furrowed in almost permanent worry marks. The last words that Arthur muttered out caused him to start. _Wait...what?_ He sat there for a while, trying to piece it together. Unfortunately, his memory seemed to be slipping, or was just so filled with those he had made over the centuries of his existence that it hid behind so many others. "Us...two?" he finally said out loud, hoping tasting the words on his tongue would spark some recognition.

"You and the git," came the muffled answer. Arthur didn't blame him that he didn't remember. Arthur himself wished he didn't remember. "Both of you were arguing over some idiotic policy and I yelled at you both and threw you out of my house." Arthur had been sitting on his settee, looking at the motes of dust swirl in the daylight again when they had barged in, bickering loudly over something England couldn't even remember. All he had remembered was wanting to rest, just be silent and fall into the cracks of time and memory. But no, they had to keep bickering and arguing and yelling until Arthur had snapped, and shoved both Alfred and Francis out of the house with unknown strength. He had sunk down to the ground when their voices faded, and had cried. "…And then I broke down," Arthur said. Things had changed after that, not immediately, but enough that he was able to live in the world long enough to garner his steel before yet another war shoved him to the brim. Now the shadows lay in quiet. Barely ever coming out except for the days the steel wall he had built to separate them slipped through the cracks. "Then things got better," he explained to Francis, voice still muffled by the fabric of his pants and knees. "Slowly, very slowly, I went through the motions– for years." Why was the fabric wet? He nestled his head deeper into his knees, wishing once again he could curl up into oblivion. He wasn't crying. What reason was there to cry? "But I'm fine now." He was fine. He was fine.

Francis' face softened upon seeing what Arthur was trying to do. He was trying to hide it inside, force it back behind walls that were no longer there. He was afraid to face it– to go through it and feel everything after he had forced himself to forget for so long. In truth, he was probably worse off now than France ever had been. Those shadows of his, the dark thoughts hadn't gone away. It was similar to when Francis had locked away his emotions not so long ago. They didn't just disappear; instead building and growing, all the while waiting for their release. Slowly as not to startle him like one would will an abused animal, Francis drew the broken man to him, wrapping his arms securely around him in an embrace, as if he could keep the pieces from falling a part. The heat of Arthur's body reassured him that his _Angleterre_ was still here, and still alive. Bowing his head so it rested against the broken Briton's head, he breathed in his scent. "Don't hold it in," he whispered, his warm breath ghosting against Arthur's ear, making his wheat colored locks flutter. _Just let it out, Arthur. Stop trying to be so strong and just let it out._ He let his blue eyes close as he felt the body encased in his arms sag into him.

Starting lightly at the touch, Arthur felt all of his barriers fall as the distraction took hold of him. For that brief second, it was as though he was in a deep canyon, staring at a wall of black, grey and white water surging towards him. Everything hit him and it _physically_ hurt. He ached and the tears were falling rapidly as he looked up over the horizon his knees made. "I don't know…" A hiccup from the violent sobs made him shudder and he choked on watery words. "I don't know what you're tal–." A sob clawed out from his throat and he shuddered, trying to hold it back as his green eyes burned. "… you mean…". Breath hitching, he tried to stifle another sob.

Shifting the man in his arms, Francis guided Arthur to face him now, his knees unfolding from where they had been pinned between them. The obstacle overcome, France moved the smaller man's head onto his chest, moving one of his hands up to stroke calmingly at his hair. He distantly could feel his shirt becoming damp, but right now he couldn't give a damn. Cradling the Englishman close to his head, he continued to whisper into his ear. "You've held it in for so long, and I couldn't see," he began, pausing to shake his own head. Arthur was right; no one should have to go through this alone. He might be a little late, but he was going to try damn hard now. Moving his nimble hand down to massage lightly at the tense muscle of Arthur's neck before returning to gently stoking his hair. "I'm sorry Arthur, I'm sorry I couldn't help then," he muttered. _Come on Arthur, come back to me, and leave the darkness behind_.

Arthur's throat constricted at the words, blinking and shutting his eyes against the tears that burned angrily along the rims of his lids. The water was drowning him and saving him at the same time. Nimble fingers grazing against his head beckoned him to surface, to float away from the black and cold water settling at the bottom. He gasped, lying finally at the top and breathed harshly into Francis' shirt– a raw sob falling from his lips and joining the endless tears and gasps as he purged.

Francis just continued to hold him, beginning to rock gently back and forth. _That's right Arthur, come on you're so close_. "I'm here now," he cooed softly. He distantly realized that their roles had been switched not that long ago. Words that had kept him afloat and fighting drifted into his mind, echoing slightly in the voice of the person he cared about most. Never had wiser words been spoken. "No matter how black the sky, no matter how many clouds cover your sun, they'll clear," he muttered the phrase he had learned by heart. Taking another soothing breath, he added a promise that he would die before he broke. "I'll make sure of it."

The cathartic cries continued to crawl from his throat, and his fingers latched on tightly to his lover, trying to find his footing in the world. Everything was raw and everything hurt from his soul to his lungs. "There've been a lot of dark days," he choked out, looking up to Francis in search of something. He clutched on tightly, as though afraid that he would be sent adrift back into the black waters. The shadows were drowning, slowly hissing as they sank. They would never truly leave, no matter how hard anyone could wish, they still left their harsh mark–but maybe now he could truly stay afloat and thrive.

The broken tone to Arthur's voice made Francis's heart burst. Leaning away slightly, blue eyes met their swimming jade counterparts. Moving his hand slowly, he brought his left hand up to lovingly cup his cheek, using the pad of his thumb to brush the tears away. The man before him was no longer drowning, he could see that now, but he was lost without a direction to go. There was confusion and hope swimming in his shinning orbs, just waiting for some sign of what he should do next. Francis knew that Arthur had been fighting to keep his head above water for so long, that now that the water was gone, he had forgotten how to stand. Giving him a soft, gentle smile, he said, "I'm bringing an end to those." Pausing as he continued to search the clear eyes. "If you'll let me."

Absinthe eyes flickered over France's face, soaking up all the minute details he could glean and hiccupped from the quieting sobs. The crying had been cathartic, leaving him an almost still quietness and fulfilling exhaustion. Looking to the room, a miniscule frown twitched on his chapped lips and he pulled away from Francis, glancing at him before slowly sliding off the bed, hesitating only when his fingers trailed away from the tear stained sheets. Tugging lightly on Francis' shirt, Arthur silently began to shuffle out of Francis' room and down the dark hall slowly as though he would collapse from pure exhaustion.

Watching his every move for any sign of a relapse, he could see the emotional and physical exhaustion visible on Arthur's wan face. What he didn't see was defeat or the hidden pain that was so visible only moments ago. Following the gentle tug on his sleeve, Francis rose from the bed and trailed behind the island nation without complaint. He stuck close, Arthur's fatigue humming in the air, his body looking like at any moment his legs would fail him. France wasn't sure where they were going, or why they had not just stayed in his room when Arthur was so visibly drained, but he remained silent, willing to go to the ends of the Earth and back if it would help his _Angleterre_ in some way.

The hall was dark, but Arthur barely paid attention with his eyes half closed and the sway in his step as he walked from memory to his room, hearing the soft breathing of Francis behind him. Arthur smiled wanly and tiredly, and it was a hidden smile as he opened the door to his room. He could hear the pause of step behind him, but he didn't stop. Rather, England slithered to his bed, resting gently on the edge before crawling and sinking to the middle of the bed, clutching his sides achingly and drawing up to a curled position for protection and warmth.

_Ah, so this is where we are going,_ Francis mused quietly. Both their footsteps seemed to echo in to the silent house, haunting their every move. Pausing as he watched Arthur crawl into bed, unsure if he wanted him to join him or not. Watching the proud nation curl up into himself, like a child who had just woken up from a nightmare pulled at his heart, and he sighed at the sad scene before him. Moving towards the bed after a few moments, he pulled up the quilt folded neatly at the foot of the bed. Taking care not to jostle him too much, Francis crawled onto Arthur's bed, draping the quilt over both their frames. Slowly, as not to accidentally strike Arthur with his braced hand, he pulled the man to him, so the forehead of his love rested against his sternum. Pausing to adjust the blankets once more, he wrapped his arms protectively around him, expecting the silence to resume once again.

"Of course I'll let you," Arthur said with a hiccup, looking to Francis' shirt as he talked. His brows came down to a sharp angry 'V' and his hands clenched and released the fabric of the shirt around Francis' abdomen systematically. Finally nestling into the protective warmth, Arthur muttered in an exhausted but false angry tone, "Fucking frog." He hiccupped again and shut his eyes, hand entwined with his once again pillar's shirt.

A relieved and kind smile pulled at Francis' lips, the light name calling assuring him that things would be alright. Heck, as bad as it may sound, it was most likely as close to a pet name that Arthur could give. He waited for Arthur to curl into him as much as he wanted, smiling fondly at the younger nation as he buried his face into his shirt some more. Once England seemed to have settled, he wrapping his own arms tighter around him, leaving no side open for the shadows to try and attack his beloved. "_Pour vous seul, je serai une grenouille. Pour tu sois toujours mon prince_," he whispered slowly and softly, wanting Arthur to understand every word, and hear that it came wholly from his heart before he placed a soft kiss on his king's crown.

Arthur lay there breathing in his lover's scent, rubbing once or twice at his constricted throat or sore eyes. Finally he sniffed and looked up to Francis, green eyes slowly gaining their glow back. "Francis?" he questioned softly due to his raw throat.

"Hmm," Francis replied, resting his head on the pillow. He opened his eyes when he didn't get a direct answer, shifting to look down at the man he loved.

"All the locks better be fucking fixed by the time I wake up." Arthur then shut his eyes, a shadow of a smile of his lips as he fell into a deep sleep, ferried by emotional and physical exhaustion.

Still at the teasing threat, Francis allowed himself to chuckle softly as he felt Arthur drift off into what he could only guess was a healing, dreamless sleep.

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One or two chapters left! That's all! So please review!


	13. Chapter 13

Hey all you readers out there! THE FINAL CHAPTER IS HERE! Well, there is an epilogue following this, but it is the final chapter of the story. So we both had crazy stuff going on in college, and had to rewrite this due to the first version being full of suck. But look at how this story has progressed! In someway, I feel that this story has allowed for (at least me) to grow as a writer and become more professional in voice. I'm sure Kage would say the same. We both want to thank you for all of your patience, dear readers. We write for you and we hope that this has been enjoyable. Here's to our story coming to it's end.

_Chris

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Arthur was warm under the covers, legs poking out from the twisted sheets. He rolled his head, groggily opening his eyes as his hair brushed against the fabric of the pillow case. With a yawn, he rolled over, searching for more warmth and the usual body that now slept beside him. His arm hit the cool mattress though, and Arthur opened his green eyes further. Francis must have already woken up. A quick glance at the glowing green clock by his bedside told him it was still early in the morning.

"Francis?" England called, sitting up and peering around the darkened room. His hand furrowed through his tufted hair, bed sheets and blankets sloughing off and pooling around his waist. Shivering slightly, he pulled the blankets off and padded towards the bathroom, looking for the golden haired man.

Arthur scratched at his bare shoulder, blinking about the room and the bathroom before padding out to the hall, still seeing no sign of France. He wasn't worried, but it would be nice to know where the other man was. Once he got to the top of the stairs though, he knew where he had disappeared to.

The scent of baked goods and bacon hung thickly in the air, enveloping and cradling the household. His knee cracked as Arthur descended the stairs, and he rolled his shoulders as a small stretch. Cutting through the living room, England could see the plethora of food consuming the kitchen, the lithe form of Francis in the center. There wasn't an inch of the table or countertops that wasn't covered in food or cooking utensils. "Good...morning?" Arthur said, staring about the room in confusion.

"_Bon Matin, Angleterre_!" Francis turned to look at Arthur with a smile, the smell of his creations doing nothing to calm the nervous fluttering in his stomach. White flour splotched his cheek, nearly blending in with his naturally creamy skin. He turned back to the cooking, clumsily flipping the spatula in his braced hand. The sleeves of his turtleneck were pushed up to his elbows, the collar pulled up high to cover the still healing bruises.

Arthur graced the other man with a frown and a dubious expression. Noticing the flour dusting his cheek he gave a small but warm smile and walked over to him. "Why are you up so early?" He gave a hum in question, brushing off the white with the pad of his thumb.

"I felt like making breakfast," Francis replied with a smile, feeling rather uneasy. Sapphire eyes shifted about. His hands twitched to move, needing to do something to keep his mind off the events of later today.

England studied him for a moment, before nodding and turning away slightly. He grabbed the kettle sitting on the oven range and pulled it close to his chest. Padding over to the sink, he filled it with fresh water to make some tea. The sheer amount of food filling the kitchen still yet to be processed through his sleep draped mind and he tilted his head. "Making breakfast for twelve then, are we?" The food in there could have fed the world meeting it seemed. With a clatter, England placed the kettle on the stovetop, turning the burner to high. Francis seemed jittery, but Arthur could guess why. It had been a while since they had seen the rest of the nations. Biting his lip, Arthur turned around, folding his arms against his bare chest and watching France. "The scones look good," he finally said. "Not as great as mine, but still good."

Francis turned and actually looked at all the food for the first time. "Yeah well," he muttered before pausing and rubbing the back of his head. In truth he had started cooking something for himself, but one thing led to another and he began baking all the breakfast food he knew how to make. Chuckling nervously he turned back to his love. "I may have gone a little overboard, non?"

With a smile, Arthur turned to watch the kettle rock back and forth as it heated up. Green eyes flickered back up, watching France's face as he silently worked at the other side of the stove. His face was pale, though that could have been from the weak morning light, and looked like he had little sleep. The faint dark smudges under his eyes highlighted the pensive look welled behind his ocean eyes and Arthur pushed away from the counter, wrapping his arms around his thin waist and placing his head on his shoulder blade. He watched pancakes slowly bubble and muttered softly, "_Oui, il semble bon. Est-il pret_?"

Francis smiled at the warmth leaning up against him. His heart fluttered as the phrase passed through his lover's lips, his heated breath ghosting over his back. As he watched the batter bubble he couldn't help but feel giddy at the strides Arthur's French had taken. Flipping the last pancake onto the plate, he moved to place it onto the table. "_Oui, oui! Bon appetite_!" He paused as he had trouble finding an open place. He didn't even know that they had that much cutlery. They would definitely have to go shopping to get more groceries after all of this.

The kettle screamed shrilly, hot white steam pouring out and Arthur pulled it off the burner, stepping away to find a cup and tea leaves. "Let me just make a cup," he said and pulled a hearty and fragrant black tea out, pouring it into the cup and then the water on top of it. Stepping away from the stove and Francis reminded him of how cool the room actually was and he shivered again, goose-bumps coving his arms. "And maybe put a shirt on, it's cooler down here." He watched the tea darken and drummed his fingers against the counter.

Francis hummed in response, eyes ghosting over Arthur's half naked body before turning to look out the window without a second thought. Too many thoughts were running through his head. The sun was starting to get stronger, birds starting to swoop through the warm air. The cheery mood failed to reach the Frenchman, his face still grim. "Hmm, alright Arthur, everything is ready when you want it." He moved to go towards the living room, thinking of tidying up or attempting to read a little more of the book he had left in there.

Arthur blinked, watching the other man move farther away from all the food. There was no way he was going to be able to eat all of that. "Aren't you going to eat?" He returned the kettle to the stove, holding the still seeping tea in one hand. "Are you feeling alright?" He doubted it was anything more than a nervous stomach, but still...

"Non, Non. I'm feeling fine," Francis quipped back quickly. He turned at the worried tone in Arthur's voice. He couldn't help but fidget, moving to tug up his turtleneck a little higher. He had been wearing them ever since coming back from the hospital after Ivan's kind visit. It was warm out, slightly too warm to wear such an article of clothing. Regardless, Francis couldn't bring himself to change into something else, not with the bruise still so dark. "I ate earlier."

Arthur kept his gaze focused on Francis, glancing down to his brace and then to the table as he picked up a warm scone. "You ate earlier..." Arthur doubted that and he frowned at the sepia liquid. Francis' fidgeting made him more concerned and he rubbed at his brow. "Where are you going? It's too early to get ready. Come sit with me." Maybe if he sat in front of the food he would at least nibble at something. He was still too thin for England's taste. He sat in one of the wooden chairs, studying France closely, from the careful holding of his braced hand to the numerous times he picked at the collar of the sweater to the way his lips were quirked.

Looking to Arthur then to the open room behind him, it took all Francis had not to start biting his lip. The kitchen suddenly felt too small, and he felt like he was going to be buried by the food he had created. The sheer amount turned his stomach. His legs twitched with the urge to move, pace, run, anything to battle his racing thoughts. Emerald eyes beckoned him forth and he didn't wish to worry Arthur any more than he already had. Slowly he made his way to the seat next to Arthur, sinking into it, keeping his face away from the mounds of food.

Arthur watched with worried eyes for a moment longer and took a bite of the scone. The silence in the air was heavy, but outside the world was so bright. He hoped the meeting would go well, if not for his sake then for France's. "Did you sleep well?" he asked, guessing the answer but needing to cut the silence someway.

"I slept enough," the Frenchman muttered back, contributing no more to the conversation. To be truthful, he had barely slept, spending most of the night tossing and turning, nerves getting the best of him. His gaze found its way back to the window, wishing the calmness of nature could seep into his own form.

Arthur put down the cup with a quiet clack. His brows furrowed together and he entwined his fingers together. Francis being so quiet was discerning, and it made the knot of worry building in his stomach make him feel slightly ill. "What's wrong, love? You're worrying me a bit."

"Nothing, nothing. _Je le jure._" The words lacked the assuring tone he had tried so hard to fill his voice with. With a sigh, he went to rub at his forehead, stress making his back ache. He could feel a migraine working behind his eyes, pulsing with each nervous twitch he made. Those piercing eyes of Arthur, he could still feel them. "I suppose I'm just a little nervous for today's meeting."

Arthur put a hand on top of Francis', trying to comfort him. Neither said anything and he pulled away after a minute. "Nothing to worry about," he said, picking the cup back up and warming his hands with the hot ceramic. He grabbed at an orange sitting in the middle of the table and glared at thin air. "Not unless anyone wants a .40 caliber bullet in their head." Arthur wasn't taking any risks. He picked away the waxy peel, the acidic fruit spraying its scent into the air. His eyes twitched slightly in thought.

Taken back by the sudden threat, blue eyes came to rest on the grumbling hay colored hair man. Noticing the twitch in his eyes, he knew Arthur planned on backing that up. Coughing nervously, he moved to rub at the back of his neck. "Um, Arthur, I'm sure that will be unnecessary," he muttered back, pulling his collar back up. His gaze turned back to the window, hand subconsciously going to rub at his braced right hand. It had stopped aching a while ago, the Britton making sure of that.

Arthur gave him a wicked grin and hummed gaily, eyes lighting up brightly. "I wouldn't be adverse to it." No, he would have no hesitations of carrying or brandishing his gun. He glanced over at Francis again, halving the orange in his hands. He quieted down again and watched Francis silently rub at his brace. "You're worried about Russia, I take it," he breathed the words, parting the sections of the orange before biting down on one.

Francis couldn't help the sigh building inside of him. Was he that easy to read? In truth, it wasn't just Russia. The mere thought of feeling all the eyes of the other nations on him made him twitch, his throat swell and his stomach knot in the most painful of ways.

Arthur tilted his head, watching him. The morning light was finally suffused with a warm yellow, highlighting Francis' face and body. Had it not been the pitch of his eyebrows, Arthur could almost see him as calm and serene. "You know there's nothing to worry about, love. It's a simple meeting." Nothing was going to happen. Besides, the boys would be there and with Arthur, nothing was going to happen to anyone. "We're not even speaking," he added for reassurance, popping the orange into his mouth.

There was plenty to worry about, at least, in Francis' mind there was. Faces that he hadn't seen in months would be staring at him, judging him. He had no doubt that everyone knew, gossip spread faster at those meetings than in the halls of high schools. His eyes stayed trained on the windowpanes, face somber. "It will be the first time I've seen everyone since the roof."

England choked on the orange, nearly spitting it out as he whipped his head to Francis, staring his with wide eyes. He put the fruit down, floundering to find something to say. He finally turned away and stared at the grain of the wood table. "Not true, you saw the boys after that." He flexed his hand tightly, watching his knuckles turn white before forcing his hand to relax. He swallowed, feeling his throat become thick and tight. "I wish I could say I know how you feel, but I don't." He turned fully in his seat, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Are you okay? We can go to a meeting further away." When France didn't need to hide behind a sweater or conceal his brace. Arthur bit his lip, heart heavy.

Francis hung his head, fidgeting again. He had spent all morning in worry and being nervous, he didn't want to go through it again. If he backed out now, he would really be the coward that the voices had kept calling him. No, he had to do this. He couldn't run away. "Why put off the inevitable. Might as well get it over with."

'Because if I don't do it now, I don't know if I could ever go back.' With a sigh he rose from the table, not looking at his beloved. "I'll go get my things together."

"Put off the inevitable..." Arthur whispered to himself. His lips pressed together in a thin line, standing up from the table in a surge. "Don't talk like that, you sound like..." He trailed off, unable to voice his thoughts and sat back down slowly. He folded his hands together and pressed them to his eyes, shutting them in dark and recent memory. "Nothing is inevitable!" he growled angrily. He took a breath and looked up, green eyes wary.

He paused at Arthur's reaction to the words, blue eyes meeting green, he couldn't help but feel sad. The fates had brought them together, hadn't they? "_Au contraire, mon amour_," he whispered, turning to head up the stairs. Pausing at the now fixed wall, he sighed before disappearing completely from the Englishman's sight. "Some things are out of our control."

Arthur twitched, feeling angry at the words. Nothing was out of their control. "What is wrong with you?" He stood up once again and stormed after him, shoulders tense. "Francis!" He caught sight of the taller man about to ascend the stairs. "Bullocks to 'out of control'." he muttered to himself. "We're not going to the meeting, you're not ready." His hand gripped the banister tightly.

France froze at the top of the stairs, the anger in his love's voice making his heart ache. Turning to look at him, he saw the flush of rage on his checks. His brow was furrowed in worry, a pain shinning in those emerald eyes. England couldn't protect him— he shouldn't have to. "But I'm already dressed," he replied, holding his arms out around him to show off his outfit. His face became gentle, a genuine smile working on his lips. "Honestly, I'll be fine. I'm just not looking forward to sitting through those meetings again I guess."

"You're worrying me." Arthur searched France's face carefully, trying to make sure that the tendrils of darkness he had once seen were not creeping up again. "I just don't want to see you...down again." He stopped speaking, not knowing what else to say. He was frightened, but there was no danger to fight. His shoulders remained tense, but his fingers relaxed on the banister

"I'm not going anywhere, _Mon petit lapin_," Francis muttered softly, the caring tone reaching all the way down the stairs. He saw the fright ease from the absinthe eyes he had adored more than air itself. He smiles, trying his best to look chipper and throw on a cloak of ease about him. "Go eat your food," he said with a nod towards the kitchen before disappearing into his room.

Arthur watched his form disappear and dragged his hand off the banister, wrapping it around his stomach as he still kept his brows pitched in worry. He felt unsettled and sick. The thought of food churned his stomach and England, with one last look to the top of stairs walked to the kitchen taking the scone, orange and tea with him to the trash- throwing away the food and pouring the tea down the drain. He walked to the living room, sitting on the couch silently and looking out of the window, the once warm yellow light looking watery and grey.

* * *

Had so much time really passed? Francis glided down the halls, each footstep echoing loudly in the otherwise, empty passageways. They appeared to be like a fun house one moment, twisting and compressing in, then a mere word from Arthur and they were back to normal. It seemed centuries ago since he had last made this walk, yet only yesterday at the same time. It was timeless here, and the mere thought of what was coming next made his stomach knot. His hand tugged up his turtleneck, feeling the need to hide, to shrink back before someone saw him. His lithe hands moved to pull the sleeve of his jacket over his brace, trying to disguise any sign of weakness, of something that would make the nations stare.

Arthur glanced over to Francis, watching him slowly tug on his collar. Green eyes turned back to the hallway, watching the patterns in the carpet as they walked by. He fiddled with the cuff on his suit jacket, and stole another look at the taller man. In truth, he too was nervous, but it was more for Francis than himself. What with their gloomy morning and having to face Russia again, he really wasn't sure how everything would go. "We seem to be on time," he muttered, checking his phone quickly before stowing it back in his pocket. "Alfred said he would save us seats near him."

Francis' stride broke, his pallor paling slightly at the thought. If America were to sit where he usually sat, that would place them right across from Russia. Alfred always did like to keep his eye on the, what was his term, communist bastard. The Frenchman fought to keep his breathing calm, trying to fight the lump that was forming in his throat. He cleared it the best he could, fingers moving to pick at the sleeve covering the brace again. This had suddenly just became a little more...difficult. "That was kind of him," he muttered, not liking how watery his voice was.

Arthur hummed, tilting his head slightly as he continued to watch him. He seemed paler than this morning and Arthur truly considered dragging him back home. But where he could be stubborn, so could France. "Perhaps," Arthur muttered and checked his phone again out of habit. "God, this is going to be so painfully boring." He huffed, staring at the ceiling and glaring at it. "We might as well spend our time watching paint dry." He grumbled under his breath a few more complaints and put his phone back into his pocket.

Arthur's dramatics caught him off guard, and Francis couldn't help but think he looked like a pouting child. "Aren't they all?" he replied, a smirk working its way onto his face before he could think to stop it. At least his _Angleterre _was here to help him. Maybe he could get by.

Arthur rolled his eyes, but smiled at seeing the smirk. At least he seemed to be in slightly better spirits. "They've been getting worse each time. Just another dry, dull, horrendously incompetent meeting full of vociferous idiots and debating ingrates." He paused, and looked to Francis in honest bewilderment. "Why do we have these meetings again?"

"To sit around and argue about policies and treaties that never pass so we feel like we are accomplishing something," Francis muttered back. In truth he had found these meetings tedious and practically useless years ago. They would meet and discuss proposals that each would take back to their respective country head. Someone always had a problem with it and the things they had spent possibly an entire month speaking about would be sent back to them or dropped all together. His back twitched suddenly, feeling as if eyes were glaring at him. Cautiously throwing a glance over his shoulder, he couldn't help but fidget and frown. "It's not like we have other things to do," he said to Arthur, sapphire eyes still nervously looking down the hallway.

Arthur grumbled, missing the backwards glance and glowered at the hall. "I could be sinking armadas." Ah, the good old days, when the world was rough, dangerous and glittering in excitement. He folded his arms, feeling only slightly like a petulant child and glanced at his phone once again before eyeing Francis. "Would you stop that," he muttered.

"This isn't the pirate days, Arthur. It would be ungentlemanly," Francis scolded, unsurprised as a slight depression wormed its way into his voice. Oh how he wished it were. No boring meetings, no being cooped up in a room for hours on end, just the open sea and the power all his ships brought him. The days called out to him fondly, and there were days he wished he could do nothing more but jump on one of the old wooden ships and sail off to untold adventures. The Francis from those days wouldn't be walking down this hall glancing over his shoulder every few minutes. Blue eyes turned to glance behind him, hand tugging on his sleeve. "Stop doing what?"

England had been glaring at Francis for the 'un-gentleman' comment, and huffed again. "Stop acting like a spooked rabbit." He turned to look at the wall and then met ocean blue eyes. He placed a hand on France's hand, trying to stop him from fidgeting with his clothes so much.

Without thinking his body flinched away from the contact, as if it would burn him. He couldn't stop the jittery feeling that was taking over his body, or the ice that seemed to be spreading though his veins. _D'accord,_ so maybe he wasn't completely ready for this. The mere thought of it was making his skin crawl uncomfortably. In his mind, Francis didn't know why he was so spooked. He was fine, nothing would hurt him here, nothing would happen...right. "Forgive me, _Angleterre_. It seems I'm just a bit nervous." His un-braced hand moved to rub at his brow tiredly.

Arthur pulled back, searching for any sign to turn back and go back home. "We can still go back." If Francis wasn't ready, then there was no need to add unneeded stress. In truth, Arthur would rather that they just left.

The offer turned in his head but as tempting as it was, he couldn't, not when he was so close to just getting it over with. "If I did, I doubt I would be able to look at myself in the mirror," he admitted, voice rough. No, if he left now, all he would see every time he gazed at his reflection was a scared old man, well past his prime. That thought alone nearly made his heart stop. Taking a deep breath, he rolled his shoulders to straighten them, trying to ease away the nervousness and tension that was resting heavily on them.

England frowned and looked to the familiar doors only a short distance away. "If it gets too much, just leave for a bit." He was getting nervous again and bit his lip. "No one will think twice of a bathroom break." He furrowed his hand through his hair, trying to calm himself, though he remained stoic. Nothing was going to happen. Francis would be fine. They would sit through the meeting and go home. The day had barely begun and he already was becoming agitated and anxious.

"Hmm," Francis replied, too afraid that if he tried to say anything his voice would fail him. He couldn't help but stop a few feet away from the door, snaking his braced hand into the pocket of his coat. Nerves attacked him anew, unsure of what people's reactions will be to his return. Would they still ignore him, see him as worthless and unworthy of time? Would they be cautious, treating him as though some fragile doll, looking at him with pity when they think he was not looking? What should he expect? Should he expect anything at all? He felt nature take over, the flight instinct making his legs itch to move.

Arthur sighed, shutting his eyes for a moment before turning to France and giving him as warm of a smile as he could muster. "No need to worry love," He leaned forward and kissed his temple gently, interlocking their fingers for a moment and squeezing gently. England pulled away, green eyes bright and reached for the doors in front of them. "Deep breath," he said with a playful wink. "Nothing we can't handle." As he pulled the door open, he went back to his normal and irritable frown, daring anyone to mess with them today.

Smirking at Arthur's playfulness, France tried to forget the butterflies in his stomach. He bit his lip as he tugged at the turtleneck once more, before moving to set his shoulders and stand up to his full height. If people were going to stare, he was going to make sure they knew he didn't care, because he didn't... Risking one more glance behind him, he willed his face into a look of calm and ease, attempting to place a little light behind his eyes. Taking a deep controlled breath, he nodded slightly at England, feeling as though he was about to plunge in the turning sea.

Pulling the door fully open, England crossed the threshold as though it were his own home. The familiar large room was both comforting and a bit frightening at the same time. Already, most of the other nations had congregated in and were taking their seats. Above hung all the worlds' flags, bright in the light from both the florescent lighting and the large windows that lined the large and grand room. Walking on the right side of the oval table, Arthur scanned for any sign of America or Canada, knowing they would have saved them seats. All he could hope was that they would be far from Russia. He finally caught sight of the familiar young men, Alfred leaning back in a chair with his feet propped up on the table as he listened to music. Matthew too was sitting, though he was reading a book. He couldn't help but smiling in relief seeing two open seats between them.

Francis opened his eyes to look at the room, feeling as if it had somehow shrunk during his absence. He felt the heavy weight as more than a few pairs of eyes turned to fall upon him. Allowing his sapphire eyes to gaze about the room, he refused to meet any of the stares, allowing everyone to pass in blurs of color. His lips pulled to the corner as he fought to keep his calm facade in check, blue eyes locking onto the familiar faces of the boys. Taking a calming breath, he stepped forward, making sure his gait remained even and slowly as he bee-lined straight for them.

England continued to walk briskly, noticing a few stares from some of the other nations and sent a glower towards them, watching them turn away quickly and smirked. When he reached Alfred, he returned to his seemingly perpetual frown and whacked him with his brief case. "Get your feet off the table," he said disapprovingly. With a glance back, he checked that France was still there and turned back to Alfred.

Rubbing his head, Alfred gave a bright smile at seeing England and France once again. "Artie! Francis! We saved ya yer seats." He smiled, watching Arthur twitch at his accent and folded his arms. "And my feet aren't dirty so it's cool."

"No. It's not 'cool'. Feet. Off." Arthur glowered and tapped America's feet with his case this time. "It's the principal of the matter! Feet down!" Honestly, if he hadn't been the one to raise him, he would think monkeys had done it. Stubborn boy.

Smiling at the familiar bickering, he was thankful for the distraction. At least this much hadn't changed, and probably never would. "Come now, Arthur, leave the boy alone," Francis chided teasingly, his tone easy and smooth. It was like he could almost forget the stares that were starting to burn holes into his back. Well, almost.

Arthur glared at Francis, as if to ask, 'whose side are you on!' He folded his arms after placing his case on the table. "I'm sure if it were Matthew you wouldn't be saying that."

"_Mattieu_ can do as he pleases," Francis replied easily with a shrug. Opening his eyes to smile at Arthur, he cocked his head slightly at him. "He just knows better."

Matthew blushed at his parent's complement, never liking to be caught in the middle of these arguments, playful or serious. He buried his nose deeper into his book, praying the words would whisk him away from here. "Papa..." he muttered, embarrassment coloring his voice.

"_Que lisais-tu?" _France asked as he moved to place his hand on top of Canada's head. He felt like he had stepped back in time, back to when his _Mattieu_ was young. He hadn't realized it had been so long since he had done the action. A calm relaxation took over him as moved to glance at the text currently capturing his boy's attention.

Arthur shot him a glare that clearly said 'I'm going to strangle you'. For as much as he acted like he was the more benevolent parent, he had been just as strict in his upbringing. England knew he was just more irritated by the little things. He sighed slowly.

Matt glanced up from the pages, smiling warmly at the comfort that was written on Francis' face. "_Les Misérables_," he replied quickly before burrowing his nose back into the worn pages. It was an old gift from Francis, and one of his most cherished possessions and still one of his favorite books.

Alfred rolled his eyes at seeing Arthur still frowning at him. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever," he mumbled but took his feet off the table. He watched Arthur relax more and shook his head, adjusting his glasses soon afterwards. "Oh! Hey! I just remembered—you guys are gonna be so psyched." He noticed England's wary look and waved his hands energetically. "So Matt gave me this awesome idea about global warming and how to fix it." Hell yeah, it was a sweet idea.

England adjusted his briefcase slightly, positioning it so he would have easy access to his gun if he needed it. "I'm sure," Arthur muttered seeing America's happy grin. Checking his phone, Arthur looked about the room in wonder. "Shouldn't the meeting have started by now?"

France's muscles tensed before he could stop them, blue eyes darting between the seats. Which chair should he take? The closer he sat to Alfred, the closer he would be to Russia, but the more entertained he would most likely be during the meeting. The missing weight of his briefcase made his hands twitch. He wished Arthur had let him bring something to occupy his time, and he suddenly felt under prepared.

Arthur glanced over to Francis before nodding to the chair between him and Matthew. "Sit here, someone should be spared America's insane babble." He took the chair next to America and in effect, putting that little more of a distance between France and Russia. That and he might not have a clear shot if Francis was sitting on his other side. He took the black chair and looked up into blue eyes, feeling the worry starting to well up again. "Rest, Francis," he mumbled, "We're not presenting, nor expected to make valuable feedback." They were just going to watch this time.

"I wish you had let me bring something," he muttered back, hands inching to do something. He eased himself down in the chair, hand still stuffed into his pocket. Subconsciously he shielded it away from wondering eyes, hoping his collar still covered the bruises.

Arthur shrugged. Really, the only reason he had brought his case was to carry the gun. He leaned back in the chair and smirked at the wall across from them. "I simply had to carry something," England admitted.

Francis' brows furrowed in thought before realization hit him. Of course Arthur had brought his gun, but that still didn't mean that France didn't want to appear prepared for the meeting. With a sigh, the broad shoulders settled back against the chair, settling in for the meeting. As the other nations took their seats, he couldn't help but notice Russia is on the edge of his sight, yet not directly across from him. At least he didn't have to look at him for the entire meeting, though it was good to have him somewhat visible. Francis would be lying if he said he wouldn't be nervous if his blue eyes couldn't find the man. He felt his eyes gaze over, momentarily locking with amused violet, hand subconsciously digging deeper into his pocket as he looked away. This was going to be a long meeting.

* * *

The calm yet tedious silence that was only broken by the speaker and a few off handed comments by the other nations. To say he was bored was an understatement, but at least it was a familiar boredom. It was amazing to have a sense of routine and normality seep back into his tired bones, something he didn't realize he would miss so strongly. Taking a deep breath Francis forced himself to pay attention, running his hand through his hair to keep his mind from wondering into daydreams.

Arthur glanced over to Francis a few times as the meeting progressed, the boring talks causing Arthur to languidly sit back in his chair, pressing his fingertips together as he watched the room. A flicker of motion caught his eye and he turned to watch France fidget slightly. Biting his lip, the island nation continued to switch from surveying the other nations to keeping an eye on the man beside him.

America too was bored and so he had taken an unimportant piece of paper to fold it into a paper airplane. He glanced up routinely, glaring at Russia distrustfully as he had done for the last half of the century. Russia just smiled back, even when Alfred sent the plane lazily in his direction.

Arthur shook his head at watching Alfred make the paper airplanes, knowing it was a lost cause to snap at him. Instead he watched Francis fidget again and bit the inside of his lip in hidden concern. He leaned to the side nonchalantly and whispered, "Francis, is everything alright?"

They were sitting there for at least an hour before the aching in the Frenchman's hand became too sharp to ignore. He wrestled it from his pocket and gently rubbed the brace, the light pressure helping slightly with promoting blood flow. Biting down on the inside of his cheek he gently flexed his hand as much as the brace would allow him, pins and needles adding to harsh ache of his healing bones. Arthur's voice surprised him and made him start, nearly knocking his hand against the table. That could have been bad. Turning to look into emerald eyes he smiled lightly. "I'm fine, just not used to sitting still yet," he whispered back, voice low and gravelly.

"So it's not because you're cramping your hand in your pocket?" Arthur muttered and frowned, lips pressing together. He rubbed at his brow and sighed, leaning back into the chair. He watched Francis from the corner of his eye, briefly drumming his fingers on the table in thought.

Matthew looked up from his book for what must have been the first time since the meeting had started. Purple eyes found their way onto Francis, brow knitting in worry behind his glasses. "Francis, you shouldn't do that. The doctor said you still needed to be careful with it!" His gaze fell to the brace before looking to the Frenchman, adjusting his glasses as his lilac eyes bored right into his soul.

Bowing his head slightly, he allowed his hair to curtain the others off, gaze finding their way to the brace. He couldn't shake the weight of feeling another pair of eyes on him, one that made a shiver run down his spine. Sighing, he shook his head. "Désolé_, Je sais_."

Arthur continued to frown and looked about the room, seeing no one outwardly watching them. He then turned to France and unfurled his hand below the table. He understood the need to keep injuries out of sight, especially with Francis' recently warped perception of his own 'weakness', but England also knew that ruining his hand's healing because he didn't stretch it at all for hours was an idiotic way to do so. He didn't want to see him being hurt anymore. "Let me see your hand please," Arthur muttered quietly.

At the prospect of having his hand seen, Francis' eyes became hard and guarded as he turned to look at Arthur out of the corner of his eye. He could deal with it until the meeting was over, or at the very least until the break they were scheduled to have. "Not here, Arthur," he hissed softly. It might have been his imagination, but he felt as though some nations turned to look at the two of them, merely darkening his frown.

Arthur tensed at the steely look and narrowed his green eyes, not backing down. His own eyes became equally hard and he hissed lowly, "Humor me." He watched Francis silently for a moment and finally tacked on, "At least rest in on my lap so you aren't hurting it anymore." It wasn't like anyone could see through the table or what was sitting under it. No one would be able to see his brace.

Sapphire battled emerald for a few moments, before Arthur's insistence wore him out. With a sigh, Francis couldn't fight with how quickly he was getting tired. Picking up the braced hand delicately, he offered it to the island nation, flinching as cool hands came to guide it to his neighbor's lap.

England gently touched Francis' forearm when he finally complied, giving a weak smile in thanks. His green eyes turned back to the presentation, feeling the heavy weight of his hand on his lap. Iceland was speaking to the table about something Arthur had missed. After a minute of silence between them, he looked back to Francis and said softly, "Thank you."

"Hmm," Francis grunted back before moving to rub tiredly at his forehead. _Angleterre_ was getting to him, and if he wasn't careful, he'd be following his ever word. Moving to look back at the presenter, he barely surprised a groan. Finally allowing his ocean eyes to wonder, he spotted Canada reading their book under the table. A smile breaks out onto his face, before deeming that perhaps Canada is spending just a little too much time with Alfred.

* * *

Nearly an hour had past, and no end to the meeting was in sight. Francis couldn't believe how out of practice he was, his legs itching to move, hands becoming even more fidgety. His thoughts drift back to the suggestion Alfred had made before entering this suffocating room. Easing his hand from his love's grasp, he checked to make sure his painkillers are in deed in his pocket before standing from his chair as the speakers transitions from one speaker to another.

Arthur glanced up, stopping briefly from tapping his pen against the table in boredom, as Francis walked away from the table. He looked back to the speaker transitioning at the podium while leaning into his chair. He probably just needed some air. The meetings were long and tedious enough as they were.

Francis kept his gaze on the door as he moves towards the door. He couldn't fight a shiver that ran down his spine as he felt countless eyes bore into him. It was all he could to keep his pace even, his face calm as he eased the door open and slipped outside. Listening to the soft click of the door closed, he pressed his back against the nearest wall, heaving a heavy sigh. "_Au mon Dieu_," he muttered with relief. Taking a moment to collect himself, he moved towards the bathroom. His stomach was still in knots, feeling as though a thick sludge was sliding down his throat. It was like the lion's den in there, and the hall felt like an open meadow compared to that tiny room. Pushing open the door, France approached the sink, leaning on the basin before looking at himself in the mirror. His face looked pale and sapphire eyes looking tired and wild. Sighing, he turned on the tap and popped two pills into his mouth. Swallowing them with a grimace, Francis sighed before he splashed some cold water on his face, relishing the cold chill shocking him awake.

The door swung open slowly into the bathroom, quiet as Russia followed into the bathroom. He stood silently by the door, barring it shut with his large frame and pressed against the light wood. He held the pipe in his hand, looking down to the scratched and used metal as he waited for the other nation to notice his presence on his own time.

He didn't hear someone enter as much as sense a presence behind him. Wiping the water from his face, Francis looked into the mirror, heart stopping at the sight. Snapping around with wide eyes, he pressed his back against the sink. His hand had some how found its way to crack against the cool porcelain. Stifling a pained gasp, he clutched it to his chest, blue eyes not wanting to leave the towering nation. "R-Russia."

"You are looking well, France" Russia said, tilting his head as he studied the shorter nation and then returned to looking at his pipe. Rubbing his thumb over a dent in the middle, he leaned against the door more. "And how is dear England?"

"H-he's fine," Francis muttered back quickly. If his stomach was doing flips before, it felt as though it had fallen out of him all together. His hand gave a vicious throb, his eyes watering as he tries to clear his throat. Swallowing an all too audible gulp, he tried to straighten himself. His mind was racing, muscles shaking as a new mantra of _'merde, merde, merde_,' looped in his head. "Stronger than ever, I'd say."

"A shame," Russia replied and looked back to France, a dark smile sliding across his lips. "But you never know...it could change in a blink of an eye." Russia took a step forward, beginning to corner France in. "He should savor his health." His smile fell away and became cold. "Both of you should." Because once he was done with the small European nation, he would pay England back for forcing him to retreat. And it would be lovely and gruesome. His fingers tightened around the pipe.

Francis felt himself bristle as Russia threatened Arthur. The feeling of protectiveness chased away a good portion of his fear. Ivan could threaten him all he wanted, but once he brought the island nation into this, he would not stand for that. Hard sapphires narrowed, meeting violet unflinching. "What is that supposed to mean, Russia?"

Russia gave a little shrug and then titled his head as he studied Francis, amused at the show of courage. "What do you think it means?" Russia asked simply, his tone bright. Two steps closer, and still his gaze with France was not broken. "I only mean as nations our health changes quickly. Anything could happen. Mistakes are made all the time that could hurt any one of us." Ah the game he had once played with little America. How many times had they warned each other that their finger could just simply slip and send themselves into mutually assured destruction?

"Genuine mistakes are rarely made, Russia," Francis growled, pushing himself away from the sink. If he had heckles, they would have been raised, body tense. He felt as though a wolf protecting his own. "You leave Arthur alone."

"Well, well, well," Russia laughed heartily. His frame towered over France as the space between them disappeared. "So protective over dear England. How sweet." At the island nation's name his voice grew cold and threatening. He tapped the pipe resting in his hand, reminding France of its presence. "But enough of him." Russia's smile faded. "His time will come." Violet eyes flickered, seeing the dark mark on Francis' jaw. "Still have a bruise I see."

The change of conversation caught him off guide, freezing as the power of anger leach out of him. All too well, Francis felt the still fading bruise suddenly warm against his skin, as though long fingers were wrapped around his throat once again, or another fist had struck his jaw. His legs itched to bolt, it took all he had not to let his eyes dart about. As the fear edged back into him, the Frenchman clenched his jaw, trying to fight it off.

"I had not realized I had squeezed so hard, but you have such a thin neck...easy to mark." Russia's hand darted out, fingers grazing against Francis' neck before pulling down his sweater sharply to admire his work. A hum reverberated out from his throat and he smiled. "Fragile almost," he purred.

The contact made his blood run cold, effectively freezing his body. His head began racing in his throat, eyes wide. The phrase 'fragile' danced to his ears, instantly thawing him. Blood now boiling, fire burning as he angrily batted Ivan's hand away. A growl roared from deep within his throat. He was done hearing those words, Fragile, weak, anything like that. His lips pulled back into a sneer, venom dripping from his words. "_Bâtards Russes_"

"But not fragile," Russia chuckled, seeing the spark of anger. Still, he studied France like a hunter watching his prey. "_Nyet_. You put up quite the fight." It wouldn't be interesting if he didn't. Russia's smile widened. "I wonder if England would do so? Or would he fall sooner." Russia shifted and looked towards the door, thoughts churning through his mind. "He would probably waste his air trying to shout, don't you think?" England was vocal in meetings...He could only imagine more.

"Leave _Angleterre_ alone, Russia!" Francis demanded, rage filling him again. The ferocity was building inside of him. How dare he! How dare that blonde haired bastard! He couldn't even begin to imagine the sick things running through the insane man's mind. "There will be hell to pay if I see you even try to go near him!"

Russia simply glanced down, judging him as annoying as a gnat. "I would like to see you try." At least this was making his day amusing.

"My people and are not to be trifled with, _Russes_!" His fingers twitched until they curled into a fist, back straightening as he reached his full height. France let his eyes narrow, as though he could direct his enraged glare with such accuracy that the man before him would burst into flames. "Of have you forgotten what happened to your precious Moscow."

Russia stiffened slightly, backing only slightly at the memory of burning buildings and dying men. He cleared his throat and glared down at the smaller nation. "It would be foolish to forget," he said calmly. "But I have learned. So do not think you could do so again."

Francis felt his body lean forward, taking some of the abandoned ground the Siberian country had given him. "As you said, Russia," the Frenchman spat with a sneer. "Mistakes happen all the time." He paused, letting his words sink in, enjoying the sparkle of foreign pain in Ivan's eyes. "It would be a shame to see the city go up in flames yet again."

Violet eyes narrowed angrily and a cold aura hovered around him. "As it would be to see yours."

"I will not stand you threatening my people," France said back evenly, steel working its way into his voice. He actually took a step forward, invading Russia's space for once. Years of hard battle had made his war face something to contend with. The stare bore easily and unwavering into hard violet, slowly chipping it away.

Russia shrugged his shoulders, adjusting his scarf slightly. "Perhaps I do not need to fight you. America has made a fine enemy these past years." He looked back to meet the furious blue gaze and chuckled once. "Paranoia has done him good, _Da_?"

Francis gave into rage as his body bristled at the threat on his family. Fear was long gone by this point, body tense as protectiveness took over. They were his family, his to protect, his to keep safe and he wasn't going to let some damn violet-eyed bastard do anything to them. He couldn't remember the last time his blood boiled with such fury, such ire. Francis couldn't help but be reminded of his imperial days, a long missed aura pulsing off of him. "If you think I will just stand here and let you threaten my family you are sorely, sorely mistaken. There will not be a single place you will be able to hide from me, Russia!" His body worked on its own, muscle memory taking over. Parkour wasn't only good for running across rooftops. Stepping towards Russia, he vaulted up and kicked off of the man before him, making him stumble back. Back flipping easily, he landed, ready to move again at a moments notice. His eyes narrowed as he regarded Russia, the man who had caused him and his family so much trouble.

Russia stumbled back from the force, gripping his pipe angrily as his violet eyes flashed in fury. "That was unwise, France," he gritted out angrily and paused to decide on wither to strangle him again or hit him harshly with the metal pipe in his hands.

The door opened again as Russia moved to attack France, Arthur coming in behind him and hidden by the nation's larger frame. He had been slightly concerned by how long France had been gone, but England hadn't thought of Russia's absence either. Green eyes darkened and he reached into his suit jacket, pulling out the gun he had once carried in his briefcase. His jaw clenched as he watched Russia take a step forward.

"It would take little effort to annihilate North America." Russia growled out in anger, not knowing England was now behind him. "Just one call is all."

Snarling at the threat, the blond haired man stepped forward, stance firm and unyielding. How dare this coward, this bumbling sadist threaten his family! "I'll never let you do it. I'm not afraid of you Russia! Not anymore." As the fury fed his words, France felt his left hand ball into a fist, a biting pain as his nails threatened to draw blood from his palms. "I refuse to be weak, I'm tired of being helpless and just bending to everyone's will," he admitted through clenched teeth before his voice evened in that deadly calm. "I am the _République Française_. I am strong, resilient and I will protect the ones I care about with my dying breath!" Once more Francis stepped forward, bringing himself a few mere inches from the nation, which used to make him tremble. Fire raged in his eyes, pride swelling in his breast, strength pulsing through him that he had longed missed. "You'd be unwise to make an enemy of me, _Russe_!"

Arthur's gun faltered from aiming at Russia's lower back. He hadn't heard France sounding quite so angry in years, at least outside of wartime, and it both made him a bit nervous and immensely relieved to hear that edge of self-assurance once again. A smile nearly bubble up, but he focused back on the situation as Russia tensed to attack France. Arthur gave a low growl to make his presence known while flicking off the safety. England snapped, "Don't move Russia. I've got a .40 caliber bullet with your name on it." Seeing the shift of stance, England took a small step to the right to get into a line of sight. "Now, I think it's time for you to leave and go sit down at the table." Green eyes flickered to double check that France wasn't harmed.

Francis hadn't given an inch, left hand still balled as he expected an attack from the foolish Russian. Ocean eyes flitted over to meet Arthur's, giving a small nod before turning to look back at the pondering nation. "It would be prudent to heed _Angleterre's_ words," he warned the man before him, face relaxing into his eerily, harsh calm.

Russia glanced between the two smaller nations, weighing his options. Finally, violet eyes darting away from the black gun England held, he lowered his pipe and began to walk out of the small tiled bathroom as if noting had occurred. He pushed the door open and smiled to the open hall. Who said anything had to happen now? Nations did have very long lifetimes.

Tuning away from the closing door, England let out a sigh when it finally clacked shut. Warily, he looked over to his lover and put the safety back on while walking over to him. "Are you alright?" he murmured, coming close, but giving space.

Allowing his hand to relax, the Frenchman took a moment to relish in the adrenaline which with his body hummed. It felt as though some great burden was lifted from him, his shoulders and mind feeling lighter, a confidence building in him like he hadn't felt in centuries. Francis couldn't fight a small smile that spread across his face. He felt renewed and re-invigorated. Turning his sapphire eyes to meet their emerald counter parts, he watched them widen slightly at his blazing gaze. "_Oui _Arthur, I feel better than I have in years." Shifting his shoulders, he felt a pleasing pop and his body stood tall on its own, relishing in the air around him.

Arthur gave a smile in turn and rubbed the back of his neck once. He looked towards the door and then back to Francis as he tucked the gun away. "That's wondrous to hear." He took a step closer, putting a hand on Francis' shoulder and gave another sigh of relief. Emotions from the morning had been festering through his mind, but seeing him now was putting all of that to ease. He chuckled suddenly, the laughter bubbling up quickly. "Was that a footprint I saw on Russia's chest?"

_A footprint_. The phrase turned over in his mind, bringing a smirk to his face. He hadn't seen any such thing with his own eyes, but the Frenchman could confidently wager how it had gotten there. Turning to look at his _petite lapin_, he smiled broadened. "Perhaps it was," he replied cryptically, the fabric of his turtleneck bunching around him uncomfortably. Reaching up without a second thought, he righted the clothing, for the purpose of comfort rather than to hide his bruise. "I felt like leaving a mark on him for a change," he added with a laugh.

Arthur's chuckle faded as the situation came back to mind when Francis fixed his collar. "Yes, but I was getting worried about you," he admitted quietly. He gave a small pat and pulled away, heading to the bathroom door and opening it. His brows furrowed together and he shook his head. "As were the boys as you can see."

Outside of the bathroom door were America and Canada, the northern brother standing in the hall with his arms crossed while America leaned against the wall and laughed. He looked up at both Francis and Arthur, mirth filling his blue eyes as he chuckled, "I don't know what the hell you two did in there, but please do it again. I love seeing Russia pissed off." He pushed away from the wall and stood next to Matthew, his grin bright. "It's like winning the lotto!"

Upon seeing his father, Canada rushed forward, hands out in front him as he took stock of the man. His violet eyes glimmered with worry behind his glasses as he placed a kind hand on France. "Francis! Are you ok? What happened?" More questions threatened to fall from his mouth in the slightly louder than usual voice of his. He quickly snapped his mouth shut, looking into eyes the same color as the sky for answers and possibly reassurance.

"_Oui, Oui Mattieu. __Je suis d'accord,_" Francis replied quickly with a calm voice. He remembered seeing that frightened gaze from Canada many times when he was Matthew's caregiver. Letting a big smile grace his lips, he nodded at the boy as he placed a calming hand on his shoulder.

Arthur hummed and walked past the French speaking nations, glancing at America before heading down the hall to go back to the meeting. "Well, the exciting part of our day has passed. Time to return to the meeting." He glanced over his shoulder to America, knowing the nation would try and stall as long as he could and clasped his hands behind him. "And please do hurry up rather than dallying in the middle of the hall."

While Arthur finished his retort with Alfred, from the shadowed area of the hallway stepped out Belarus. Her dress swirled lightly as she breezed to the middle of the hall, her face dark in anger and blocking England's path. Her hands were clenched and she glared furiously at both Francis and Arthur.

Francis whipped around, feeling rather than seeing Belarus' presence, much like her brother. Stifling a curse, he easily slid between the fuming country and his beloved. That easy smile was still stretched across his face, looking at the female nation from behind a curtain of golden hair. "Ah, _bonjour_ Belarus."

Arthur whipped around, having heard Francis' voice so close and stiffened upon seeing Belarus so near. Where had she even come from? Instantly, his hand snaked towards where his gun was stowed. "Belarus..." he gritted out, remembering the time she had antagonized them both in the hospital.

Behind both France and England, America stood still, his face for once serious and calm. He looked at Canada and then back to the two European nations. He kept quiet, ready to intervene if he had to, but folded his arms and waited to see what happened.

Belarus' eyes narrowed, her white fingers clasping the edge of her apron while her eyes narrowed darkly. "You have touched brother." Her gaze focused in on France, clenching her teeth in hot anger.

All mirth left Francis' face in an instant, the fire back in his eyes. "He was lucky all he received was a footprint after he threatened my family." It was the truth, the Frenchman would not have hesitated fighting the Siberian nation if his dominant hand was any use to him. He narrowed his gaze at the furious woman, a warning shining brightly behind them.

Belarus' hands moved over her apron, her gaze still furious. "Then it was necessary. Brother is always wise."

Green eyes narrowing, Arthur took a step forward. "Listen Belarus, I am in no mood to be dealing with your dramatics. We are returning to the meeting now, as should you."

"I was not done speaking," she hissed angrily. Behind France and England, America unfolded his arms warily.

England gave a sharp glance, one that announced he was not to be messed with. He began walking forward again, intent on simply leaving her. "And we are done talking to you." He looked back down the hall where the meeting had by now resumed.

When Arthur was nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with her, Belarus slipped the knife that had been folded into her apron, arcing it out to stab him. The metal glinted as it came down in a flash.

Sapphire eyes flashed with the reflection of the knife, right arm snapping out to catch the blade. The sharp weapon bit into the brace, stopping with a screech as metal struck metal. Wrapping careful fingers around the blunt side of the blade, Francis twisted the instrument free from Belarus' hand, ignoring the ache the motion brought up his own arm. Furious blue bore into the startled woman, right hand returning to his side. "It would be wise to do as England says and return to the meeting Belarus. I'll over look this...lapse of judgment on your part this time, but I will not be so kind should you attempt this again," he snarled out, like a wolf protecting its pack.

Belarus looked furiously at Francis, her eyes cold as she ripped her hand away from his grasp. "How dare you," she snarled icily and launched herself at Francis.

Arthur shot his arm out, stopping the furious woman and then trapping her against the wall. He pinned her hands knowing another knife would be lurking within the folds of her dress. His own eyes were hard and dark with anger. Lips pressed tightly together, he glared at her before fuming. "Enough! Try it again and gentleman or not, I will break your wrist." Because there was no way he would let Francis be hurt by her again.

Stepping forward, Francis placed a calming hand on Arthur's shoulder, braced hand still holding the bladed weapon. He could practically taste the rage in the air that surrounded his lover. Arthur didn't need to protect him anymore, not that it didn't warm his heart to see him try. "I don't believe that's necessary," the Frenchman muttered, his voice deep and smooth.

"Y-yeah Arthur," Canada stuttered, coming to stand next to France. If one didn't know him, they would have missed the stern glare hidden behind kind eyes. "L-let's just go back to the meeting."

America sighed as he passed through the nation near the wall, subtly breaking them apart. He came to a stop by Arthur, looking down at him as the island nation still glared angrily at Belarus who was glaring back. With another sigh, his arms looped around Arthur's waist, hoisting him off of Belarus and slinging him over his shoulder. "Come on Artie, time to take your old man pills. I think she gets it," he murmured before glancing sharply at the female nation, the light of the hall glinting off his glasses. "Right?"

England spluttered at the undignified position and smacked Alfred with the palm of his hand against the North American nation's head. "Put me down!" He wasn't a child!

Alfred laughed, putting him down next to Francis and with his broad hands, grabbed his brother and pushed France and England towards the meeting room. "Meeting time, I have to tell everyone about my great idea anyway!" He glanced back once before looking at his family with a big grin.

France headed towards the room, body still relaxed and calm. Glancing over at his northern neighbor, he sighed at how tense his frame was. He was practically fuming. Brushing a hand against England's he waited for the tension to break and green eyes to fall on him. Gracing Arthur a smile, he turned back to his seat, ignoring the gazes falling upon him. They could stare all they wanted— they wouldn't bother him anymore. Distantly, Francis knew his eyes still held the calculating chill from his Empire days. Letting them fall on a select few who stared too hard, his smile widened slightly as they quickly looked away, something proclaiming a great disturbance wafting off their posture.

Arthur still sat quietly in his chair, crossing his legs and fuming. He folded his arms and then sharply glared at the gazes he could feel from some of the more curious nations. With a huff that melted into a dark grumble, he watched Belarus come back into the room, taking her place near Russia. She gave a dark glare and he returned it venomously. It was a shame he couldn't just curse her.

Letting his eyes survey the room about him, France's gaze fell on the Siberian nation without fear. Blue locked onto a pale print on Russia's chest, shining out brightly to anyone who knew where to look. It was a perfect print of his shoe, treads and all. He was pretty sure if one looked close enough, you could make out the number printed on the bottom of the sole. His left hand moved to rub at his brace, tracing the cut fabric caused by Belarus' blade as he reclined in his seat. This whole day had taken a lot out of him, and now that the adrenaline was wearing off, a happy tiredness overcame him. Glancing once more at the island nation, he placed his braced hand on love's knee. "Relax, _mon lapin_. There is nothing they can do to us anymore."

"If you say so." Arthur muttered back and hummed, reluctantly sitting back in the chair while looking up to the podium where Germany was preparing to start the last portion of the meeting on global warming. Arthur fussed with his shirt cuffs and then huffed once again.

Canada's eyes flitted about, still nervous about a possible sneak attack. Though he doubted that Ivan and his sister would just jump over the table to attack them, he didn't completely dismiss the idea. Once he was sure things had calmed down did his finger itch towards his book once more. Only this time, Matthew kept his gun not too far away as he allowed his eyes to become glued to the pages once again.

Arthur slowly let out the stress with a deep breath and looked calmly at the podium, taking Francis' hand under the table again and running his thumb over his wrist, glancing at him with a minute smile before retuning his gaze while Alfred got up to the podium to explain his idea for global warming.

"So I actually got this idea from Canada while we were talking about polar bears. Anyway, so they reflect sunlight on their coats 'cause they're white, yeah?" He paused to survey the room and returned to waving his hand as he talked. "What if we paint the whole world white! Then it would be cool all the time!" He gave a thumbs up as Arthur smacked his head into his palm, muttering under his breath about the stupidity of the other nation

Blushing at the ridiculous plan of his brother, Canada buried his nose deeper in his book. He really had to stop thinking America was kidding with these plans of his. He felt a blush growing, only made worse when he heard Francis' chuckling beside him.

America glanced over to his brother, looking surprised. "What, not a good plan?"

Smiling nervously as he felt more than a few pair of eyes fall on him, Matt put his book away. How could he explain this to America without him throwing a tantrum? "I-if we paint the world white, it would go into an ice age b-because it would reflect all of the light."

America stared blankly at Canada. "An ice what?"

Arthur simply put his head down and sighed.

Finally, some normality had returned and righted Francis' little world, and he wouldn't trade it for anything in the universe. Chaos now ruled his life, but with his family and his love by his side, he'd take it. Settling back into his chair, and giving Arthur's hand a gentle squeeze, he tilted his head to the side and laughed.

* * *

Like we said, this was the final chapter. Next will be the epilogue and then that is all there is, there is no more.

Thank you for your patience as we dealt with real life and thank you for your wonderful reviews.

_Chris and Kage


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